The Raven's Heart
by eventide unicorn
Summary: Yvaine gets stuck on a flying pirate ship with two princes Septimus and Tristan , one of whom doesn't know it and neither of whom know she's a star... She thinks they're both quite nice... in rather different ways!
1. Part 1

The Raven's Heart _**The Raven's Heart**_Prologue

The little girl ran down the hillside, dark curls bouncing merrily behind her. She spun to a momentary halt around one of the slender trees that covered the slope, laughing back up to where her older brother scrambled after her.

"Una," the boy called anxiously, "Una, stop, don't go so far..."

"There's something there," replied the little girl, lip jutting out stubbornly. "I want to see."

"We're too near the border," her brother responded, hastening forward as though hoping to seize her. "We mustn't go any furth... Una!"

The little girl had evaded his lunge and raced down the hillside, short legs a blur. The boy regained his balance and with a soft snarl of frustration, he sped after her, his gait long and his footing sure. But she reached the clearing ahead of him.

A goat cart sat in the clearing, the goats grazing nearby, and a fire burned. A delicious aroma came from the cooking spit above it. Suckling pig, thought the little girl, hungry from a day's rambling and exploration around her father's summer palace. A woman sat by the fire, a very old woman, dressed in dark green and emerald. She looked up at the little girl's abrupt arrival.

"Hello, my dear," she said, with a smile the sincerity of which an adult might well have distrusted.

"Hello," the little girl replied.

"And where have you come from?" the old woman asked.

"From the palace," Una replied fearlessly.

One of the old woman's eyebrows went up.

"So you are the little princess, then?"

Una nodded her small head firmly. Her brother skidded from the tree line and grabbed her.

"Una! We are going back right now!"

Una twisted free with all the blithe self-will of innocence.

"What's wrong with you, Septimus?" she pouted. "We've come all this way without seeing anything so very interesting; _you_ may like caves and rocks and... _wildlife_, and now there's something and you just want to rush away again!"

Her brother was only a year older, but even had life not taught him rampant suspicion from the very cradle, his feeling of responsibility for his sister steadied his young head considerably.

"We are going back," he repeated, trying to tow her into the trees.

"Why, you poor things," said the old woman. "You must be hungry. Do share this piglet with me before you go..."

Young Prince Septimus eyed the spit. He was very hungry but... his eyes narrowed. That was no piglet. No domestic piglet, anyway, t'was a wild boarlet. An impressive catch for a fully armed huntsman, since one must go through the mother first... he shifted uneasily,

"Thank you for your kind offer," he said courteously, "but we're really not hungry." His stomach accompanied his words with a loud growl which he ignored, jaw tightening as though daring the woman to mention it. His sister was not cowed,

"Nonsense, Septimus!" she said impatiently. "We're starving! Of course we'll have some."

"No. We. Won't." snarled the boy, seizing her arm again and making a considerably more serious effort to drag her away. She began to cry, the younger sister's time-old defence.

"You're hurting me," she wept. "I'll tell Primus you hurt me. Or Secundus. I'll tell Secundus you hurt me. Then he'll _kill_ you..."

The boy paused. Even at his tender age it pained him to hear his sister speak so naively of something that would probably come to pass sooner or later and which he knew she did not _really_ want. And trying to move someone almost the same size as himself was very hard work.

Una took advantage of his distraction to break free again and run to the campfire. The old woman greeted her approach with another insincere smile and hastened to cut slices from the meat and lay them on a tin plate for the little girl. Septimus came up behind his sister and stood rather protectively, watching her eating.

"Pork, young prince?" offered the woman.

"No, thank you," he replied rather stiffly, though his anger was directed more at Una than their host.

"As you wish," replied the old woman, with a slightly secretive smile. Septimus shifted from foot to foot and fiddled with the hilt of the small dagger that hung at his belt. The woman made him very uncomfortable, but he had no way to convey this to his sister, at least, no way that good manners and caution would permit.

Una had finished her bread and meat, and was chattering on about the goats and the cart and how pretty the old woman's dress was... Septimus was relieved when the old woman finally cut her off.

"Now dear," she said, "it will soon be nightfall, and you are worrying your brother. You had probably better be going." Septimus was looking around in alarm. He'd known it was late, but he hadn't realised so much time had passed. The sun was low in the sky, and they had a long way to go...

"Come on, Una," he said, taking her hand more gently.

"Oh, wait, before you go..." said the old woman, "something for the little princess, let's see..." she drew a ring from a pocket and held it out, "do take it, dearie, it will suit you very well, I think."

Septimus pursed his lips in irritation, they could not be accepting gifts from strangers, but Una, with a less mature grasp of propriety, had already taken the ring with a sweet, delighted thank you.

"Look, Septimus," she said, holding it out to him, "isn't it pretty..."

"It's..." began Septimus, meaning to say it was going back to its owner, but she anticipated the grab that was coming and defiantly thrust it onto her finger.

And then she was gone. For a moment the shocked boy thought she was gone entirely; he stared in utter horror. But then he saw the little blue bird, perched on the log where she had been. It cocked its head from side to side and twittered in what was quite obviously deep confusion.

"Una!" gasped Septimus. He heard a sound and looked up, the old woman... the witch... he thought in sudden certainty, was laughing softly. He drew his dagger and dived for her, ramming her head up against her black cart and pressing the blade to her throat.

"I know how to kill," he snarled into her wrinkled old face, "and I will if you don't change my sister back right now!"

The witch just laughed, mocking now.

"And if you kill me, dear boy, how will you ever get your sister... defeathered? Your threat is null and void, boy."

The young prince's eyes narrowed in sudden discomfort. He felt as though stable ground had given way under his feet. Being the one with the weapon was supposed to make you the one in control... but this time the most potent weapon was magic.

With a sound of frustration that was half a sob, he released the witch and hastened back to the bird, crouching beside it and peering intently. There was a glint of metal around on wing... the ring, tight and strong. No way to pry it off or break it...

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded. "Free her!"

The witch laughed again and sat herself up, rearranging her disarranged dress fastidiously.

"I will make a bargain, with you, young princeling," she said, drawing a thick bracelet of some black metal from her pocket. "This bracelet will cause you no harm, my word on it. If you will but put it on, if you have the courage, then I will free your sister of the charm I have put on her."

Septimus eyed the bracelet queasily.

"What does it do?" he asked.

"What need of courage, were I to tell you that?" the witch replied. "I wish you children no harm," she went on, and this time her voice was so sincere she might well have fooled the most suspicious of adults, "I merely wish to see what manner of protector my little friend has," she gestured to the Una bird.

Septimus swallowed. He had not trusted the woman from the start, but... she was a witch, which explained that. And she seemed to mean what she said, she really did... if the bracelet wouldn't hurt him, and she would set Una free...

"If you really like my sister you'll just free her," he declared, giving reason a go.

"To walk all the way back to the palace in the dark with a brother who may, for all I know, be the biggest coward in Stormhold?"

Septimus bit his lip, feeling a breath of relief. They were still in Stormhold. As royal infants under the age of eleven, no harm could come to them within the borders of Stormhold, the land would not permit it. So Una's bird-affliction couldn't be maliciously meant... He concentrated fiercely, reaching out with his own meagre magical talent, seeking to pinpoint their position. They were close to the border, as he had known earlier, so close, it all seemed to swim... but the witch's words had seemed to imply they were still within the kingdom...

The witch held out the bracelet. Septimus looked at the helpless little bird that was his sister.

"I put it on, and you free her?" he demanded.

"Of course," said the witch, "come, come, the sun is almost set..."

Septimus swallowed once more. He had a terrible, rational fear that he might be about to make the biggest mistake of his short life, yet his heart would not permit him to act otherwise, to leave his little sister as she was...

He took the bracelet from the witch and looked at it. So heavy and black. It was hinged. He opened it and looked at its dark circle contemplatively. Could he trust the witch to do as she said? But surely she would not really dare leave a Princess of Stormhold in such a condition... their father was not a man best provoked...

The bird looked up at him, twittering frantically... warning, pleading, or simply continuing confusion, he could not make out.

"Fine," he said grimly, and he closed the bracelet around his left wrist. It clicked noisily shut. "It's on. Free her."

The witch laughed. She laughed so hard that she had to hold her bony ribs with her body fingers.

"Free her!" repeated Septimus frantically, terrified by her laughter. He caught hold of the bracelet and tried to rip it off again, but it would not open. He licked his lips nervously... it hadn't done anything to him, yet it would not come off, and she laughed so...

"Free her!" he cried.

"Oh, what a day!" chuckled the witch. "What naive fools children are. A princess! A princess to sweep my floors! How fine. And the princeling, what a joke! But no use to me. Be gone, little prince," she said, waving a dismissive hand in Septimus's direction, "be gone and enjoy your bangle. Now..." she said, looking at the little bird with sudden attention, and conjuring a delicate silver cage from thin air. A birdcage.

"No!" shouted Septimus, "we are in Stormhold, you _cannot_!"

But he knew the truth even before she answered, knew it in a sick heavy certainty deep in his belly.

"We are not _in_ Stormhold, little fool," said the witch, and reached for the bird.

"No!" yelled Septimus furiously, throwing himself at the woman, "fly, Una!"

Prince and witch grappled together for a moment, the boy desperate, the woman irritated, then she had flung him roughly aside, looking furiously for her prize. Septimus saw it, the flash of blue half way up the forested bank... in Stormhold. He rolled to his feet and darted forward, and as soon as he entered the trees his sense of direction steadied and he knew himself to be on his native soil. He heard the witch cursing behind him, but did not dare to trust that she would not follow. He scrambled up the hill as fast as he could, looking frantically for that scrap of blue...

"Una?" he called, "Una?" but he could not find her.

The sun was on the horizon, its sphere almost gone. The bracelet burned on his wrist like fire, he clawed at it, but it would not come off... Then the sun was gone, and his world disappeared into blackness...

Part 1

The yellow caravan stood by a small tarn, a campfire burning beside it. Two women sat at the fire sharing a spit-roasted rabbit. The older looking woman, with wild ginger hair and dirty hands, was listening intently as her younger and more beautiful companion spoke.

"I seek a fallen star," the fairer woman said, in a tone of joyous confidence. "She fell not far from here. And when I find her, I shall take my great knife, and cut out her heart," she paused, her lips drawing down and her voice dropping in sudden displeasure, "and the glory of our youth shall be restored," she finished, sniffing what was left of her meal.

"Fallen star!" cackled the older woman. "That's the best news I've heard in ages. I could do with losing a few years myself!"

"Limbus grass!" the other woman was exclaiming, casting the plate aside. "You dare to steal truth from my lips? Do you have any idea, Ditchwater Sal, what a very big mistake you have made?"

The older woman looked up suspiciously,

"How do you know my name?" she demanded. "I see you could be serious competition for that star..." And with a rather smug look on her face she flung out sudden a hand towards the other women, and something like black smoke shot from it.

The older woman flung her head back and her hands up, laughing full-throatedly. The black smoke met her palms and roiled, and with a flick of her fingers, she sent green fire streaming towards her attacker. The fire swept the black smoke back until it met the older woman's hastily thrown up hands. The woman's face twisted in sudden terror and after a long long moment the green fire pushed through her hands and decapitated her. The fair women ignored the meandering body and looked sharply towards the caravan, where a silver chain had just dissolved, and a little blue bird had sprung into the air, making a desperate bid for freedom.

"Not so fast, my pretty," crooned the woman, making a little motion with one hand. The fluttering bird was pulled into it and she closed her fingers around the delicate feathery body. "Well, well," she purred, "fancy meeting you again, my pretty. You will come in handy, I think." And conjuring a small silver cage from thin air, she popped the tiny blue bird inside and locked the door. The bird cried a sorrowful protest, but the witch ignored her and mounted her chariot, placing the cage at her feet and lashing the goats fiercely with her long whip.

Tristan Thorne was beginning to get on Yvaine's nerves. She'd been happy enough to accept his help when he'd first found her in her crater, though she had taken advantage of the rather obvious fact that he was a human and provided him with a nearby rock to serve as a star in her stead. He'd been eager to offer his help in getting her home, and she had accepted his immediate assistance, staving off the more difficult issue of the whole 'getting home' by claiming amnesia. To her surprise, he'd believed her. He'd been full of protestations that he would 'find some way' to get her home just as soon as he'd taken the 'star' to 'Victoria'. It seemed there was a time limit on his true love's affection for him. She really wasn't that interested, if she was honest about it. He'd saved her from a witch, it was true, and he seemed to think that he'd bartered passage to the nearest lake to Wall from Captain Shakespeare, although it was actually she who had done most of the bargaining. But he would not shut up about Victoria and that was getting really tedious. He was the sort of boy, she thought tiredly, who upon suffering an untimely death (which she was beginning to think not unlikely), would have 'He meant well' engraved on his tombstone. She was actually beginning to wish that he didn't mean quite so well, at least with regard to her.

"Tristan," she sighed, "if I remember anything about my home, I will let you know, alright? You're making my head hurt."

The boy immediately looked guilty and contrite. Yvaine shook her head in disbelief and shed her sodden oilskins. They'd flown into a lightning storm in the early evening and been up on deck all night, helping to catch the bolts that had rained into the nets. It could not be many hours to dawn, the lighting had finally died down, though the rain continued, and she was exhausted. Surely he was soggy and tired too, yet the moment they got back into the captain's day cabin where they were billetted for the trip, he was on about his plans for how they might get her memory back and get her home.

Yvaine wrapped a blanket around herself. Despite the oilskins, she was soaked. A quite extraordinary quantity of water seemed to have come down her neck and up her sleeves and... Well, it was a _very_ wet night. Tristan was taking his sweet time getting ready, she thought rather grumpily. Once he was lying on his couch with a blanket over his head she could get undressed herself. She shivered and held her blanket closer and tried to swallow back her frustration.

She started slightly as the wind blew the window open, and hastened in that direction, silently cursing the loose latch. The draft was icy on her wet body and rain was hammering in. She was almost there when something large came through the open window and made something of a crash landing on the floorboards. It was some kind of bird, and it was so wet that there was an audible squelch as it hit the floor.

"Oh, poor thing," said Yvaine in immediate sympathy, checking her instinctive move to shut the rain out as she considered that the bird would probably want to fly straight back out again. It was unlikely to stay in a room with people, however saturated it was. But the bird just straightened itself up to a startling height and shook itself vigorously, so Yvaine stepped forward and shut the window after all.

Tristan had picked up the lamp and come to see what was going on, and as the lamplight fell on their visitor Yvaine suddenly wished that she was still wearing her shoes. It was a raven, massive and black, and her bare toes were very close to its immense beak. She shuffled a few prudent steps backwards. The bird fixed them both with an intent look, then shook itself again. It spread its wings fully and lurched sluggishly into the air, clearly weighted down by its waterlogged feathers. Yvaine reached hastily for the window, expecting a panicked escape attempt, but the bird simply alighted soggily on the table, flapping its wings and shaking itself yet again as it tried to dry off.

"Oh dear," said Yvaine, "It's terribly wet."

Tristan snorted without a great deal of sympathy.

"It'll dry," he said.

Yvaine took the lamp from him and set it on the table. She expected the bird to take fright at the flame, but to her surprise it simply stepped closer, wings half unfurled. Steam began to spiral up into the ceiling's dark shadows as the warmth struck the ebony feathers.

Tristan went back to getting ready for bed. He clearly did not find their avian visitor as interesting as Yvaine did. She stood and watched it drying itself in front of the lamp. She'd known this kind of big black bird was supposed to be intelligent, but she was still impressed. She almost wondered if it was an escaped pet, it was so fearless.

"Oh, leave it alone, Yvaine," said Tristan rather bossily, throwing himself down on his couch. He seemed a little miffed at the attention she was giving the bird.

"Surely you admit it's a gorgeous bird," Yvaine objected. It was much drier now, and its feathers were beginning to shine iridescent in the dim light.

Tristan snorted rather rudely.

"It's just a really big kind of crow, Yvaine. Some sort of half breed thing, at that; raven's don't have yellow eyes, 'least, they don't in England. Something crow_ish_, anyway. So it's mean and nasty and cruel. It will kill anything that crosses its path, providing it's sick or injured or helpless in some way."

"And that makes it different from a person in what way?" retorted Yvaine rather cynically. Tristan looked deeply offended, but he had not spent light years watching history unfold.

"There can't possibly be any comparison," he said hotly.

Yvaine felt a breath of affectionate amusement at his naivete, but a certain amount of irritation at his self-righteous attitude.

"You really haven't met a lot of people, have you, Tristan," she contented herself with saying as lightly as possible. Tristan might be irritating, but he was her only friend down here.

Tristan, visibly offended nonetheless, opened his mouth to reply, but there was a slight scuffling sound from behind the sofa, and what came out was merely yet another imprecation against the ship's cat as a useless, spineless, whiskerless feline. Yvaine thought this was rather hard on the cat. The blame for the infested ship could be laid squarely at another door, that of the captain, who consistently fed the cat his table scraps, thus removing any possible motivation it could have to do its job. And considering the size of the rats on the vessel, she rather sympathised with it.

But the raven's head snapped around, and it sprang into the air. A couple of powerful wing beats and they furled again, as it dropped straight down behind the sofa. There was a high pitched squeak and the scrabble of small clawed feet on the decking. Then silence, apart from some rather wet tearing sounds. Yvaine took the lamp and advanced to peer over the sofa.

The raven had the rat pinned to the deck with one great clawed foot. The rodent still twitched slightly, but it paid it no heed. Pieces of the fat rat were disappearing down the bird's throat even as she watched.

"Aren't they carrion eaters?" she asked Tristan.

He sighed with exaggerated patience.

"I told you," he said. "They'll kill, if it's helpless enough."

"I wouldn't call a rat all that helpless," said Yvaine dryly.

The raven was making short work of its meal, and judging by the way it wasted nothing, it was, appropriately, quite ravenous. But for all her cynical words, even Yvaine viewed a meal of rat with disdain.

"You don't have to eat that, you know," she told the raven. "I'll find you something else."

The bird cocked its head to look at her but scarcely paused eating. Yvaine, lamp in hand, departed for the ship's galley, ignoring Tristan's scornful disbelief.

When she returned with a piece of raw steak in her hand, his objections became more strident and he leapt up from the couch.

"You can't give it _that_," he protested.

"Everything else is salted," she replied impatiently, tearing a piece off. The raven abandoned the clean-picked bones of the rat and flew back to the table. It alighted and stood looking at her with rather majestic expectation.

"That stuff's fit for a king!" grumbled Tristan.

"Well, it's a king among birds," replied Yvaine rather facetiously.

"Among mongrel carrion eaters, perhaps," muttered Tristan sourly.

She held the piece out but Tristan grabbed her hand and pulled it away.

"It will take your finger off!" he warned her.

Yvaine knew he was merely concerned about her, but she was rather incensed by his hands on attitude. She yanked her arm free.

"I think the steak tastes a lot better than my finger," she told him, but she looked again at that sharp beak and it was with more defiance than confidence that she held the meat out once more. But the raven's head darted out and it took it, almost politely, if one could use such a word about a bird. It reminded her slightly of the feral cats she had seen now and then down in cities, which would take food from humans with a similar daintiness, because it suited their purpose, but let the unwise human venture to stroke, or pick up, and blood would run. She glanced again at beak and talons and promptly made a mental note not to fall into such folly herself.

She'd hoped that a couple of pieces off the steak would satisfy the bird, but she was disappointed. It went on cocking its head at her most meaningfully until the last scrap was gone. Yvaine sighed. Even kind Captain Shakespeare would not be able to ignore so large a chunk of meat. Her generosity to this night-time visitor would probably cost her another soggy night of lightning catching. From Tristan's frown, his thoughts were running along similar lines.

"Well, I had nothing to do with it," he said rather mulishly. "You can work for that yourself." And with a rather indignant huff, he went back to his couch bed. Yvaine rolled her eyes at his horizontal form. He would sulk now, and grumble, but when it came down to it she suspected he would shoulder half the work. He had a good heart.

She yawned and stretched. Her own clothes had dried a bit as she waited on the bird, but they were still damp, so it was with some pleasure that she peeled them off and slipped into her nightdress. The bird watched her still, eyes emotionless, unreadable. When she lay down on her own couch, it flew up to the candle sconce above the window, and perched on the bracket. She assumed it would put its head under its wing and sleep, and closed her eyes and did the same.

But the raven continued to watch her, golden eyes fixed unwaveringly on the single diamond set in the necklace that hung about her neck.

Part 2

Yvaine woke slowly, warm and comfortable. Steeling a quick peep at the room, she saw that it was illuminated with the pale clarity of predawn light; the sun itself could not be far behind. The raven still perched above the window, it was awake, for she could see the gleam of its oddly un-corvidian eyes. She closed her eyes again, happy to luxuriate until the sun's arrival made morning irrefutable. But almost immediately, she felt the sun touch her, a gentle line of warmth sliding across her face, a hot brightness behind her eyelids, and reluctantly, she peeped again...

Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a gasp of shock. A man stood before the window, a man dressed all in black. Lean and wiry and not quite tall, his black hair half-curled about his sharp-nosed face, and his fierce golden eyes bored into hers. Her skin prickled, every hair rising and screaming danger, and she found her mind skittering through a quick checklist of everything and anything that might betray her true nature, but could think of nothing.

She pushed herself up into a better sitting position with one hand, thrusting her hair aside from her face with the other the better to see the stranger. His long black garments had been expensive indeed, though now worn with much travel, and a long, curved sword hung by his side. Noting also the dagger hilts peeping here and there, she felt doubly aware of her own protector's inadequacy. And she was suddenly very aware that she was sitting on a couch with borrowed blankets about her wearing a baggy borrowed nightdress purchased by a man with a taste that was... how should she put it... not quite the same as hers. Her cheeks heated with mingled nervousness and embarrassment.

"Um, hello..." she ventured. Tristan raised his head with a grunt,

"Hmm?" he saw the visitor and flailed to a sitting position himself, "What the...!" He reached under his cushion for his pocket knife, failed to find it, lifted the cushion, still failed to see it and started to grope down the back of the couch... Yvaine's heart sank.

I'm dead, she thought. Or ravished. Or... whatever he wants with me. For the stranger's attention was still unwaveringly fixed upon her. He paid Tristan no heed whatsoever, though the type of object he sought must have been obvious enough.

"Good morning," replied the man, and he spoke as though to him, the words really meant something. Yvaine felt a shade easier. At least she was to be murdered politely. "I have alarmed you," added the man, his tone dry and just slightly wry. The black amusement in his eyes somewhat belayed the implied reassurance of his words. "Let me introduce myself," he continued smoothly. "My name is Prince Septimus and the jewel you wear about your neck belongs to me." He stepped forward slightly and held his hand out. Yvaine's own hand flew instinctively to the necklace that had been her cold and rather uncomfortable companion ever since her equally cold and uncomfortable landing.

"You will please give it to me now," said the prince, and though his tone was still terribly mild and ever so polite, most of the warmth had bled from his eyes, and she almost held her breath. The pinnacle of his politeness on which they currently balanced was precarious indeed, she was quite certain. He asked for it, but he would have it, whether she yielded it to him freely or not. But he did ask. She raised a hand to unfasten it. Tristan paused his search to give her an astonished look.

"You can't give that to him!" he exclaimed. "It's all you've got! How can it be _his_?"

The prince finally looked at the human boy, a quick flick of the eyes such as one would give to a fly that one was considering swatting. But they returned to Yvaine and he continued to stand, waiting, motionless but for the breeze stirring his long coat.

"It _is_ his, Tristan," she said hastily, the necklace coiled in her hand, her heart racing at her stupidity and slowness of wit. To wear the power of Stormhold openly about her neck! To not recognise that it _was_ the power of Stormhold! Falling to earth must have scrambled her wits! And the man; she shot him a quick look. The youngest prince. So, he lived. He alone? she wondered. No matter, she would give him the stone, for in as much as she had followed Stormhold politics, she had always had a soft spot for him, the youngest, the weakest, the discounted. Ignored all his childhood years by his family, dismissed as the one who would die the moment he turned eleven, ignored to such an extent that no one had quite got around to killing him immediately and before they knew what was happening, he was killing _them_... She would gladly give him the stone.

She stood and took a couple of steps forward, then reached out and placed it in his outstretched hand. His long fingers closed around it, tightly, and he drew it in to his chest, eyes closing in a moment of perfect triumph. Then they opened again, and slowly, deliberately, he hung the gleaming ruby about his neck.

"Hey... wasn't it a diamond...?" said Tristan, still making frustrated paws down the couch.

Septimus raised his head and looked at Yvaine again.

"Let me reintroduce myself," he said softly. "My name is King Septimus, and I am much obliged to you."

Yvaine mustered the sense to curtsey, somewhat shaken by the sheer power and energy of the man before her.

"Yvaine," she said. "Your majesty."

"Your majesty!" snorted Tristan. "Some chap just waltzes in here and says he's a prince, sorry, king, and you believe him!"

Yvaine winced.

"Your majesty," she hastened on, "this is my... travelling companion, Tristan Thorne. He's... he's... he's... _human_," she finished weakly.

"Ah," said the new king of Stormhold, as though this explained quite a lot, including why, for now, at any rate, Tristan Thorne should go on living.

"You're barking," said Tristan to Yvaine, shaking his head. "Who is this guy and where did he come from?"

"Tristan," said Yvaine firmly, "may I introduce His Majesty King Septimus of Stormhold. _I've seen him before_, _Tristan_," she added in a lower and most meaningful tone. Tristan blinked and looked rather less sure of himself.

"Oh," he said at last, "uh, sorry, your highness."

Septimus did not deign to reply, his gaze travelling over Yvaine's mortifyingly pink and frilly nightie and on to the room itself.

"So," he said, clearly addressing Yvaine. "Where are we?"

"Where?" queried Yvaine.

"What vessel is this?" he clarified.

"Oh, the Caspardine," Yvaine replied. "It's... Oh! It's, um..." she floundered between treason and betrayal as she recollected the nature of the captain's trade.

The king's eyes travelled to the picture on the wall, showing the vessel flying with lightning nets fully extended. One eyebrow climbed and one corner of his mouth turned down wryly.

"Ah." He said deliberately. "I see."

Yvaine shrugged apologetically and hoped he was not angry. He did not appear so.

"Since I cannot depart again till nightfall, save we make port," he declared, "I hope you will invite me to breakfast."

"Oh, yes, of course," said Yvaine. "That is, Captain Shakespeare is the captain, but I'm sure he'll be honoured."

"How _did_ he get here?" demanded Tristan, suddenly producing the pocketknife from the depths of the couch with an incredibly unsubtle 'aha' of satisfaction. Yvaine did not answer. She knew what she believed, illogical as it might be, and if Tristan had not looked closely enough at night time and day time visitors to draw his own conclusions he would never believe her.

The king turned to look out of the window, shoulders slightly hunched as though he found the size of the cabin, or perhaps even the vessel, oppressive. He stared out in silence until finally the inner door of the cabin swung open and Captain Shakespeare stepped into the room, fully attired in a ruffled dress of a quite outrageous pink, with a long curling blond wig on his head and large fan in his hand. The fact that he'd neglected to shave rather spoilt the effect.

"Morning..." he said brightly, the words trailing off as the king swung around and stared at him, eyes scrunching in utter incomprehension.

"Who the _hell_ are _you_?" demanded Septimus.

Captain Shakespeare reversed straight back through the door, closing it behind him. There followed the sounds of a rather frantic change of clothes. Yvaine pressed her lips together, scarcely daring to speak, afraid she would either laugh or cry. Septimus continued to regard the offending door in an icy disbelieving silence. Tristan looked rather wide-eyed.

In a surprisingly short time, the door swung open again and Captain Shakespeare strode out in his full piratical regalia, faced Septimus squarely, and declared in his deepest voice.

"Well, hello, good sir. I am Captain Shakespeare, the master of this vessel. I believe you have already met my good sister, who has had to return to her bed with the shock of your greeting. But let us say no more of that, she is easily upset. I have not the honour of your acquaintance...?"

Septimus regarded the Captain with his head slightly on one side, eyes bright and intent and rather dangerous. The Captain's ludicrous ruse was transparent; his problem seemed to be deciding what to do with the individual before him. After a moment, his eyes flicked to Yvaine, just for a second. She gave a slight, appealing smile, and clasped her hands one with the other, trying to convey that the Captain was a kind, good man at heart. Septimus's lips pursed slightly, he clearly did not appreciate being lied to even in such a ridiculous manner. But after a moment the intensity of his gaze eased, and he jerked his head slightly at Yvaine.

Yvaine did not hesitate to take advantage of this permission.

"Captain," she said, "this is his Majesty King Septimus of Stormhold."

"His Maj..." echoed Captain Shakespeare, his face draining to an unpleasant shade of white. "Royalty," he hissed at Yvaine, looking ready to tear his hair or wring his hands, "you brought _royalty_ onto my vessel?"

"I didn't bring him," said Yvaine. "He came. And he would very much like to join us for breakfast."

"Soon," interjected Septimus pointedly, a rather less than regal growl coming from his stomach.

Captain Shakespeare looked somewhat startled,

"Breakfast?" he repeated.

"Food you eat in the morning," said Septimus coldly. "A fairly universal meal. You do indulge?"

"Ah... ah... yes," said Captain Shakespeare. "Yes, we do..." with the obvious implication that lightning piracy was not the foremost issue in the king's mind, he seemed to be recovering. "Of course, as a loyal subject, I would be only too delighted if you would grace us with your presence for as many meals as you care to attend."

Septimus smiled fleetingly.

"Well, that is good news," he said lightly, and seated himself rather expectantly at the head of the table. His sudden change of mood was disorientating, but that tiny smile seemed like a rare, precious thing that warmed the whole room. It warmed Yvaine, anyway. As for Captain Shakespeare, he stared at the visitor for moment, still appearing rather shocked, and clearly deducing that the monarch wished the meal to take place _immediately_, he hastened from the room looking rather flustered. Yvaine wondered if the cook had discovered the missing steak yet and winced. She'd meant to mention it as soon as the Captain was up.

Septimus sat waiting with a rather implacable sort of patient impatience, so Yvaine snatched up her dress and hurried into the Captain's private cabin to slip into it. When she returned, Tristan was still standing by his own couch, bristling furiously at the king, and bristling twice as much at being wholly ignored. He snatched up his own clothes and marched into the other cabin himself, with a slightly defiant jerk of his chin at Yvaine, as though to say she could jolly well protect herself for a few minutes. Yvaine swallowed a sigh that was almost a soft snort and seated herself cautiously at the table. Septimus paid her little heed, and they sat in silence until the king's stomach gave another loud rumble, and she had spoken before she'd had a chance to consider it.

"Difficult night?" she remarked.

He deigned to look at her, his eyes searching her face.

"Wild." he replied rather shortly, then added rather significantly, "I thank you for your hospitality."

Yvaine glanced down at her hands, a little embarrassed.

"You're welcome," she said.

"And you are perceptive," he remarked softly, and was silent again.

_**Part 3**_

The meal passed in silence, Tristan's hovering between frosty and sulking, just as he hovered between man and boy, the captain's shocked and anxious, Yvaine's own merely thoughtful. The king appeared oblivious to the cacophony of emotions around him, but Yvaine doubted this was so. Though he did concentrate most single-mindedly on the food before him, and having seen how much the raven could eat, Yvaine was not entirely surprised by the amount he consumed. Flying must be hard work, she thought, especially in a thunderstorm.

When the meal was over (which was when King Septimus had emptied every dish on the table and stopped looking for more) the silence became, if anything, even more uncomfortable. Tristan, now lacking the distraction of food, began to glower at the guest with a look of positively self-righteous disapproval, and Captain Shakespeare's fingers began to tap a nervous tattoo on the tabletop; abruptly ceasing when the king shot an irritated glance in that direction. Yvaine wasn't entirely sure what everyone was waiting for. Septimus had already stated that he couldn't leave the ship unless they made port or landed, and since they were flying over thick forest, miles from anywhere, the likelihood of either seemed scant. It was Septimus himself who finally broke the silence; having calmly sipped his tea, quite at his leisure, he finally set down the tea cup and stood. He stepped over to 'Tristan's' couch and stretched out on it.

"I hope you don't mind if I have a nap," he said, in a voice that held nothing of a question whatsoever. Captain Shakespeare did not bother with so much as a nod nor was Septimus looking to see one. He kicked off his boots, drew his greatcoat up over himself, and closed his eyes. He appeared to be sound asleep in an instant. His feet stuck out at the end of the couch, and his toes peeped through the holes in his socks. Yvaine stuffed her knuckles into her mouth to quell an almost irresistible snort of laughter. The King of All Stormhold had holey socks!

Tristan clearly saw nothing funny about the usurpation of his couch. He gave vent to several loud, disbelieving sniffs, interspersed with outraged ejaculations of '_Well_...!' Yvaine bit harder on her knuckle. Captain Shakespeare shot her a slightly reproachful look. He was clearly enjoying the situation no more than Tristan, and suffering not so much from mere peek but from a keen concern about the safety of his neck. Yvaine tried to look suitably sober and serious, and after a few woeful shakes of his head, the captain went up on deck to terrorise his crew by showing an interest in the sailing of the vessel. Yvaine went to sit on her own couch, kept company by one of the captain's fine collection of genuine English romantic novels. Tristan chose to further emphasise his disgust with the theft of the living space he was paying long wet nights for, by pacing the cabin, from side to side, passing closer and closer to the sleeping king. Yvaine spared him a few anxious glances. Anyone would think the boy _wanted_ a close encounter with a royal dagger.

Indeed, once Tristan began to pass within a certain distance of the couch, the king's eyelids would slide up and he would watch the lad pass; as soon as Tristan passed a certain point, they would slide down again, and he would appear to be instantly asleep once more. His gaze was flat and emotionless, more watchful lion than angry tiger, but still, Yvaine had serious doubts about the extent of his patience.

In fact, as Tristan kept it up, on and on, she rather thought that watchful gaze _was_ beginning to burn at a distinctly hotter temperature. She set aside her book and stood.

"Tristan, I'm going on deck," she said in low voice, as though the king's slumber could be any further disturbed, "Are you coming?"

Tristan looked momentarily torn, as though leaving off his pacing might in some way relinquish his claim to the couch in question... But he always went up on deck with Yvaine, convinced his presence was necessary to protect her from any crude advances by members of the crew. The claims of honour won over the claims of territory, and he followed her.

By the time the day was drawing to a close, the king was up and pacing the cabin himself. He seemed impatient, though he kept stopping to prod and inspect this and that knickknack the captain had collected from far away lands. Finally, as the sun dropped low and approached the horizon, he strode to the window and flung it open, then stood in front of it, waiting, his right hand slowly turning the thick black bracelet that encircled his left wrist.

"_Now_ what are you doing?" demanded Tristan. "It's cold..."

"I think his majesty means to be on his way very shortly," Yvaine told him.

"Out the window?" scoffed Tristan. "He can be my guest. _I_ won't try and stop him!"

Yvaine rolled her eyes at him and said nothing.

The sun had touched the horizon now, and was sinking beneath it. The king's stance became tense, expectant, a quiver that spoke of eagerness and dread combined. Then the sun was gone.

The king still stood, waiting. He leant forward to stare at the place where the sun had been. He touched the band around his wrist. He half turned towards them, frowning.

"Odd." he stated. He looked again at the band, then raised a hand to the stone that hung about his neck. "I wonder," he mused, and his hand returned to the bracelet, a look of concentration crossing his face.

And then he was gone. The raven stood there on the floor, tall and haughty, and almost before Yvaine had taken this in, the man stood there again.

"Interesting," he said. Again he concentrated, and the raven appeared. And after a few moments, the man was back, a look of awakening and rather guileful delight on his sharp face.

"_Useful,_" he declared softly. "_I_ control it now. Even better than being uncursed, I think."

His gaze passed over Tristan, who was making fish faces at the place where the raven had appeared, and settled on Yvaine.

"It seems I owe you double thanks," he said, his gratitude slightly tinged with what she suspected was merely defensive irony. "You have made me king _and _...freed... me of an old affliction."

Yvaine shrugged. She wasn't sure what to say, so she just spoke the truth.

"You're welcome."

He tipped his head to her, still that ironic gleam in his eye, and then he was the raven, and he sprang aloft and was gone through the window.

"_Well_!" exclaimed Tristan. "Well! I mean _really_! Who would have _thought_! Well!" And he followed this profound sentence up with a considerably more coherant, "Well, I hope that's the last we see of _him_!"

And Yvaine wondered at the foolishness of her mortal body, which could reply to so sensible a statement with a soft, 'I hope not...'

_**Part 4**_

Breakfast was much more relaxing the following day. The captain was even more mellow than usual, clearly deeply relieved at the continued wellbeing of his neck, and Tristan was in a much better mood. If anything, it was Yvaine herself who was rather quiet. She couldn't help wondering where that solitary raven was now, whether it had flown all night, or stopped to roost, and where that might be. She had to admit, though, she felt easier without that stone around her neck. Whatever Tristan might have had to say about its value, and how useful it would be to her, she'd always known that it was not hers, and that she was only keeping it temporarily. She was glad to have been able to return it to its rightful owner, though she still cringed in appalled embarrassment at her failure to recognise its true nature.

"But how can you be pleased?" Tristan was challenging Captain Shakespeare. "I know Yvaine keeps slighting my worldly experience," he paused to shoot her a rather sour look, "but that was one mean, dangerous son of a bitch, don't try and tell me it wasn't. How can you be so glad he's your king?"

Captain Shakespeare waved a dismissive hand.

"I'm neither excessively disappointed nor particularly ecstatic that Prince Septimus in particular is now our king. I'm just pleased that Stormhold _has_ a king again. We've been without for a couple of weeks now, you know, and you have no idea the danger that brings a magical kingdom."

Tristan looked deeply skeptical.

"Danger?" he queried incredulously. "It's got to take more than a couple of weeks for a neighbour to think of invading."

"_Invasion_," said the Captain dismissively. "I'm not talking about invasion. I'm talking about the kingdom's magic, which is not best left without a master. It runs wild, and frighteningly quickly. But we're safe again now. King Septimus is pure Stormhold blood, he can deal with the power of Stormhold." And he gave a satisfied nod. Then he blinked,

"Stars," he exclaimed, "I have not yet..." but his words were cut off as the cabin window slammed open with a suddenness that made them all jump. And curse and pale, in the captain's case, for he knew full well that there was not a breath of wind that day.

The raven swooped gracefully in, body tilting and wings half furling to fit their immense span through the window. It landed lightly on the table, furled its wings completely, shook itself, dipped its beak to rather fastidiously tuck a breast feather back into place, and then stalked calmly up to Tristan's plate. It seized his remaining rasher of bacon and ate it in a few peck and gulps, then began to help itself to his toast and marmalade. Tristan watched his bacon disappear in outraged shock, then hefted his table knife menacingly in the defence of his toast. The raven raised its head long enough to eye his fingers contemplatively, then went back to its meal. Tristan chewed his lip for a moment, but finally lowered the knife. They'd been far too much calculating hunger in that look for him to feel like risking his precious digits. When Tristan's plate was empty, the raven stepped to his glass and drank most of his wine, before finally hopping neatly from the edge of the table, at which point King Septimus was before them, calmly seating himself in the fourth chair.

"Good morning," he said. "Breakfast?"

Yvaine hid a smile at the outrage on Tristan's face, slightly alarmed at how delighted the king's return made her feel. But she hastened to take a rasher of bacon from the serving dish and place it on Tristan's plate before placing the dish before the king.

"I'm sure the Captain can acquire a plate for you," she said politely, "but if you would like to make a start..."

The king was already tucking in, clearly not remotely concerned by the food's uncouth presentation. Tristan snorted in disgust and dug his fork firmly into his bacon as though expecting to have to fight the king to keep it. To no one's surprise by now, he was ignored.

The Captain had sent for more crockery and cutlery, and some fresh toast, and now stared rather miserably at his royal guest.

"Fancy... er.. fancy seeing you again so soon, your Majesty," he ventured at last.

Septimus raised one dark brow in his direction with a rather wicked look.

"But you invited me, good Captain. 'As many meals as I care to attend', do you not recall?"

Captain Shakespeare looked slightly sick and said no more. After a moment he excused himself.

"I had just recalled, before your arrival," he said rather stiffly to the king, "I have not yet shared the good news." And he disappeared up on deck. A short time later the early morning quiet was split by roars and cheers of relief and delight. Tristan looked startled, as though sure the Captain's opinion of the new king could not be shared, least of all by a crew of pirates.

The king scarcely paused in eating, though he did stop just long enough to remark rather distantly,

"They are glad there is a king again."

Yvaine eyed him and wondered what it must be like to know that no one is glad that _you_ are king, only that you are.

"Well, _I'm_ glad it's you," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. He set down his fork and gave her his full attention. Idiot, she screamed at herself. This is the last man in the entire world you want to find out about you. Watch yourself, you silly star.

"And how," he said ironically, "did this preference come about in one who does not know me?" His gaze said quite plainly that he considered flattery to be the most likely motive for her words, yet was not ready to immediately suppose so.

Yvaine swallowed. She didn't want to give herself away, but she didn't really want him to think her a bootlicker either.

"Like I said to Tristan," she replied smoothly, "I saw you once. It's silly, but you know how it is. To see a prince... well, obviously I was then predisposed towards the prince I had actually seen, rather than those I had not."

Septimus blinked at her for a long moment, but then began eating again, and she thought she was believed. She would do well not to underestimate his powers of observation though, she thought uneasily.

After the meal he again lay down on Tristan's couch to sleep the day away, joining them for supper before flying away again. But the next morning, no one was surprised when he returned once more.

As he again made himself comfortable on the couch, Yvaine could stand the sight of his bare toes no longer. They kept making her laugh, for one thing, and she was sure Tristan was beginning to think her quite mad.

"Your Majesty," she said, stopping his eyes from closing. "I thought..." would he be offended? "Would you like me to wash and mend your socks, while you sleep?"

Septimus blinked and looked down at his feet as though he'd never seen them before. Then he stared at Yvaine for a moment. She realised that she'd actually flummoxed him. He scarcely knew what to say.

"If you like," he said rather stiffly at last, but she could tell that it was the stiffness of awkwardness, not displeasure. He pulled the offending garments off with two quick tugs, and held them out to her by the tops.

"You might prefer to use the fire tongs..." he observed dryly, but Yvaine took them no-nonsensely and bore them from the room, although careful not to hold them too close.

Some time later, Yvaine was beginning to feel most disgruntled. The washing had gone alright, although it had all seemed a lot wetter and soapier than when one simply watched the process. Drying, too, she'd just used the ship's iron to iron them dry, very simple. But darning! She'd seen it so often, it was such a common activity, and she was sure she had watched very closely. But she couldn't do it _at all_. She looked at the knotted, lumpy toe of the sock she had completed and bit her lip. She was sure it wasn't going to be very comfortable... Perhaps she could do better with the other one. She set doggedly to work, glancing at the king now and then. Fortunately Tristan was on deck fencing with the Captain, so the king was sound asleep, and unaware of the hash she was making of it. She hoped he remained that way until she'd at least finished ruining his socks. She'd almost completed the second sock when Tristan arrived back. He peered over her shoulder and stared at what she was doing.

"Whose are _they_?" he asked, and then his gaze seemed to be drawn inexorably to the bare royal feet that stuck out at the end of the heavy black greatcoat. "No _way_!" he exclaimed. "Yvaine, you don't have to do that!"

The king opened one eye briefly at the raised voice, but fortunately didn't direct it at his socks.

"Quiet, Tristan," said Yvaine rather irritably. "I offered to mend them. It's not like I've anything better to do, is it?"

"But...!" spluttered Tristan, who seemed see something very demeaning in darning socks. Yvaine had been quite excited about the exercise, until she found how very difficult it was. Her respect for the average woman had just risen sharply. It looked so _easy_...

But eventually the second sock was finished, and it was almost as lumpy a mess as the first. She sighed rather heavily, not looking forward to returning them to their owner. But all too soon, the king was stirring and stretching sinuously, pushing aside his coat and sitting up, and she knew she had to give them to him.

Shame faced, she held them out to him.

"I'm sorry," she said in a small voice, looking everywhere but at his face. "It wasn't as easy as I thought."

He took them from her with one hand, eyeing the misshapen ends with bemusement, but his other hand caught hold of hers before she could withdraw it. He turned it over and ran his thumb over her soft white palm and fingers, just now marked with sore red patches from struggling with unfamiliar needle and thread.

"This is a lady's hand," he stated with quiet certainty. "Why did you offer?"

Yvaine blinked.

"I... not a lady," she managed, "well, maybe... I don't know!" Truly she had no idea what a star was in this world. Septimus stared at her.

"You hadn't done it before," he stated, clearly waiting for her to make up her mind whether she was or was not what he claimed she was.

"She's got amnesia," put in Tristan defensively, frowning at the grip Septimus still maintained on Yvaine's hand. "You know, she can't remember anything."

Septimus's eyes narrowed, and his hand moved slightly, turning, his thumb pressing lightly, casually, to the inside of Yvaine's wrist. Then his eyes met hers, burning through them.

"Amnesia?" he demanded. Yvaine swallowed, her mouth dry, and tried to nod. Her heart accelerated, racing within her, and she saw the tiny, satisfied, and rather cold smile that curved the corners of his lips. She could feel his thumb on her wrist, her pulse hammering against it... With a gasp she snatched her hand back, staring at him in something very close to fear.

"Amnesia, my lady?" he said again, more of a statement this time. "That is most unfortunate," he added, his lips curving ironically, whilst his eyes told her in no uncertain terms that he knew she lied and chose to allow her to maintain her story in front of her human ally.

She drew in a slightly shaky breath, eyes thanking and pleading with him all at once.

"Indeed, you Majesty," she replied. "I'm sure you appreciate how... complicated... things can be."

"Assuredly, my lady," he replied lightly, with another long and slightly sidelong look that told her she had succeeded. He assumed her a lady, fleeing some undesirable arrangement. An unfortunate match, perhaps, and an insensitive father. It really had been too much to hope that that amnesia claim would work on many people. She wasn't even sure if the _captain_ believed it. Still, perhaps Septimus would ask more at a later date, in private, but he was not... _suspicious_.

He still held the socks in one hand, and now drew them on.

"My thanks, my lady," he told her seriously. "Clean socks are a rare treat when I am travelling alone... and..." his gravity trembled, as he finished in a voice choked with suppressed humour, "I will not be walking much!"

Yvaine's lip quirked.

"You can laugh," she said bluntly. "They're awful, I know it."

At this a snort of mirth did escape him, but he quickly smothered it again.

"Truly," he told her, his eyes twinkling like mad, "I will not be walking much!"

But for all the amiable conclusion to their conversation, she did not breath easily until his sleek feathery form was away through the window into the night. You have to get away from him, she thought to herself, knowing from their planned flight route that it was impossible. Does he know? Does he know that a star has fallen? He shows no sign of it, but would he wish to spread such valuable information? If he did not know, then she was relatively safe, she thought, for it would surely take some very considerable slip on her part to make him think her anything but a woman with a fairly mundane sort of secret. But if he knew... just how much would it take to start him thinking?

_**Part 5**_

By the time she went to bed she was feeling a little calmer, but as she lay down to sleep, the most appalling thought came to her, stripping all piece of mind away. Why did the king keep coming back? It was as though he was using the ship as some sort of moving base. As though he were... looking for something? But he already had his stone, his kingdom... what could it be? She swallowed, mouth dry, running through their last conversation over and over in her head, evaluating it again and again. But still she came to the same conclusion. He thought her a noble woman on the run. But if he sought the fallen star... she swallowed again... he could not be so blind, could he? But if he did not seek the star, what did he seek? And if he did, even if he had missed the obvious that day, surely a little reflection...

She lay on her couch bed, literally trembling with fear. Every sound made her start, afraid it was the window opening, the raven returned early to claim the ultimate prize. The king interested her, she could not deny it, she enjoyed talking with him, and to make him smile was a rare pleasure to be savoured... but... she was not labouring under any illusions. He was a hard man, and a cold man, and an ambitious one. If he knew of a fallen star, however much she might like to believe otherwise, she did not truly doubt that he would hesitate to cut out that star's heart and consume it.

Did he know? If he did not, what did he seek? What could she possibly do? There was no point running to the captain and begging to be set aground. She'd seen the maps, there were no lakes in the forest in which they could land, no mountains against which they could moor. And the king could fly... She was trapped, and irrational requests would only draw attention to herself. The crew seemed kind and good-natured, for pirates, but she was under no illusions about how great the attraction of immortality could be. Of how very much her heart was worth. The temptation...

Her mind seethed as the night slowly wore on, and she could think of nothing to do but stay there, put on a calm face, and await her fate.

Her fate, or what she feared might be her fate, flew in through the window as they were again having breakfast. Yvaine surreptitiously drew in a deep breath, took a very firm grip on herself, and busied herself putting a suitable raven sized portion of food on the king's plate. The raven emptied it swiftly enough, and Yvaine began to refill it as the king seated himself.

"Why, thank you, my lady," he said lightly, as he tucked in.

Yvaine tried not to read too much into his amiable words, in either direction. But when the meal was over he took himself over to Tristan's couch without another word, and without any especial interest in her. She could not help but begin to breathe somewhat easier. She settled herself at one end of her own couch, in case Tristan should wish a soft seat, and tried to turn her attention to her romance. Her eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, and her nerves stretched.

Tristan seemed determined to prevent her from taking any more menial tasks upon herself, and pointedly did not accompany Captain Shakespeare on deck, but remained, pacing the cabin again, taking great care to come close enough to the king with every pass that he could not get more than thirty seconds of sleep together. The unfortunate monarch seemed wholly unable to help opening an eye to observe he who passed within that unwritten boundary so regularly, and Yvaine's own nerves began to fray still further from Tristan's endless pacing.

"Tristan," she hissed finally, feeling her head about ready to explode, "will you just _stop_ it!"

Tristan clearly interpreted this request to stem from concern about the king's welfare, for he stuck his nose skywards, or rather, ceilingwards, and retorted that he had every right to do as he wished in his half of the cabin. Silence reigned for a while longer, then it was the king snapped, albeit in a surprisingly peaceful way.

"My lady," he said, rising abruptly from the couch, boots in one hand and coat in the other. "May I join you?"

"Oh, of course," said Yvaine, faintly startled, so he curled up at the other end of her couch, pulling his coat up over him and apparently sound asleep in an instant.

Tristan glared, but was clearly too constrained by good manners to pace right in front of Yvaine's nose. Finally he snorted and sat on his now-vacated couch with a book of his own. After lunch, when Yvaine continued to read and the king to sleep peacefully, he took himself up on deck. Yvaine sighed in relief and set her own book aside. She hadn't felt much like conversation, but she was far too tired to enjoy reading. After a while she tilted her head a little to rest it on the back of the couch, and went to sleep herself.

When she woke, she found that her pillow had become a shapely and rather firm calf and a heavy black coat had been placed over her. She blinked for a minute, took the time to be relieved that she was not drooling on him, and then sat up rather hurriedly.

From the light, the afternoon was well advanced. He was in much the same position as earlier, only sitting rather more upright, and her book was now in his hand. He put it aside without embarrassment, but with no trace of regret, when he saw she was awake and shifted his leg slightly, as though it were stiff.

"Are you short on sleep, my lady?" he asked her rather ironically.

"I... do not always sleep well, your majesty," she replied.

"He must be a fearsome fate. My sympathies," he responded dryly.

"One I hope to avoid," returned Yvaine meaningfully.

"Yes, indeed," he agreed. "You have my support in that, if it is of any use."

She couldn't help a soft snort at this rather self-effacing offer.

"You're the king," she said wryly. "I should think your support would be very efficacious indeed!"

He smiled, a rather wicked and not remotely humble flick of his lips, and she laughed again.

"Am I allowed to ask," she said hesitantly after a moment, "how you came to.. ah... fly?"

His face darkened slightly, though she could tell the anger was not directed at her.

"A witch," he replied succinctly. "When I was very young and... rather foolish."

"Oh," she said softly. "I'm... sorry."

He shrugged, a quick tilt of one shoulder.

"I am used to it now. It actually helped me to survive, you know." At her uncomprehending look, he expanded, "I was the youngest of my brothers by several years. Once I was no longer under the protection of the land... they would surely have slain me. But they had no opportunity to slay me as I slept, since I flew every night to perch somewhere on the outside of the Stormhold. They could not possibly reach me there."

Yvaine blinked. That was an advantage indeed.

"I quickly learned to be back inside before dawn," he added with rather poignant irony. She had a mental picture of a young boy clinging all day, tired and terrified, to whichever small outcrop he had chosen to roost upon, and winced.

"I imagine," she said softly. And since his mood seemed so good, and he had taken no offence at her questions, she ventured to ask the one which troubled her the most.

"You've found your stone," she said diffidently. "Are you... looking for something else?"

"Why do I keep coming back, you mean?" he said dryly. "Not just to watch the captain squirm, I assure you, immensely entertaining as it may be. I'm looking for my sister," he finished bluntly.

"Your sister?" she echoed. "Where is she, then?"

He gave her a look of tolerant impatience.

"If I _knew_, I would hardly be looking, would I?" he replied.

She bit her lip,

"Well, no..." she conceded.

"My sister," he said, clearly deigning to elaborate, "was with me when I came by my bird curse. In fact, the witch cursed her first, and me second. We both got away, but were separated. I made it home. My sister did not, and I don't know why. When I am the bird, I am still me. It was easy to get home, once I'd overcome the initial disorientation. But a raven is a bright bird and... there could have been some difference in the curse. My sister was a tiny little song bird. You see my point," he added, clearly unwilling to accuse his sister of even potentially being a bird brain in so many words.

"My father sent out soldiers to search for her, but forbade me to search myself. He thought I should be concentrating on slaying my brothers, and perhaps he was right. Still, I did make one or to attempts to find her. My magical talent," he explained, "lies mostly in way-finding, and indeed, thing-finding. This extends to persons. But for most of my youth my sister was not within the bounds of Stormhold, I would swear to it. And on those few occasions when she was, I simply could not pinpoint her location well enough. I surmise there is some sort of locating inhibitor in her ring – she was cursed with a ring," he interjected, tapping that thick black bracelet on his own wrist significantly. "But in truth, my talents were always minimal. Now, however," he went on rather coldly, "father is gone, and I have all the Power of Stormhold at my disposal. And she is here. I can feel it. She is somewhere in this area of Stormhold. I still cannot say exactly, but I am absolutely certain. This vessel is on a perfect course for me to search from and cover the relevant area minutely. I _will_ find her." His mouth was straight with determination.

"Well, I hope you do," said Yvaine after a moment, smothering relief so that it might not show on her face. She really began to believe that he did not know about the fallen star. Perhaps she was safe.

"Thank you," he said grimly. "I will."

He played with the hilt of a dagger absently for a while, before adding musingly,

"She may be cursed only by day... Perhaps I look for a grown woman at night. For she was a bird in the daylight, I, only once night fell... Or perhaps she is always a bird?" He rubbed one pointed ear thoughtfully.

"Would you not see more if you searched by day?" offered Yvaine hesitantly, resisting a rather contagious urge to rub her own graceful ears. Tristan's were so funny and stubby, even the faintly pointed one...

Septimus shrugged.

"I am used to flying by night. I see well. And I know the dangers well also. To fly by day would likely be counterproductive. This ship is a comfortable birth, anyway."

Yes, and that reminded Yvaine of something else she wanted to know.

"What's this thing about lightning and piracy?" she asked rather bluntly.

Septimus raised his eyebrows, seeming surprised,

"Lightning belongs to the crown," he said plainly. "Whilst it is in the air, at any rate. If a bolt fell in someone's garden and they just happened to have lightning storage equipment there, it would be legal for them to store it, but lightning attracting equipment would be against the law. The main royal lightning collector is at the top of Mount Huon, on the Storm Hold itself. No need even for a lightning attractor there, just a simple spike. I also have a fleet of royal lightning collecting vessels, they collect whatever more is needed. And I have a wing of lightning marshals, to keep a check on piracy. But to be honest, so long as my own nets are full, I have no personal interest in pirates. My lightning marshals can round a few up and hang them now and then, but I have better things to do. Captain Shakespeare may part with some of his ill gotten gains to feed and shelter me, but 'an he keep a civil tongue in his head, he has nothing to fear."

Yvaine thought Tristan in considerably more danger of mouthing off once too often to the king than Captain Shakespeare, but wondered if she might slip a comforting word in the captain's ear all the same.

The king's stomach rumbled then, and she was embarrassed when her own gurgled in sympathy. It wasn't even like _she'd_ slept through lunch! Septimus just looked slightly amused and let loose a bellow of,

"_Steward_!"

A rather alarmed and bemused captain's steward popped into the cabin.

"Y...y..your Majesty?" he stammered.

"Where's the supper got to?" demanded the king blackly.

"Ah...ah..." the steward flapped his hands invitingly towards the table and ran back out of the room.

Septimus grinned at Yvaine with surprisingly boyish good humour.

"That's hurried that along," he stated.

His rather wicked glee was infectious and Yvaine had to smile back.

"I am hungry," she admitted, smothering a giggle with difficulty.

"I could not allow a lady to go hungry," he declared, rising to his feet and offering her his hand. When she took it he lead her to the table and saw her into her seat. She felt as though she were at court. I must not let this go to my head, she cautioned herself firmly. He's a young man, and you're a reasonably attractive young woman, and there's not really much else of interest on board, is there? It doesn't mean anything.

But these very rational thoughts could not entirely smother her mirth as a harried looking sailor laid the table and fled, and Septimus's icy glowers changed to wicked twinkles the moment the lad was out the door.

_**Part 6**_

The days quickly fell into a comfortable pattern. The king would fly in at the window in time for breakfast, after which he would sleep until late afternoon. Then he would converse with Yvaine, or try to teach her to play chess, whilst bullying the servants into producing an early supper. When night fell, he would be off through the window to continue his search. Unsurprisingly, there was little variation to this regime. If the king was to cover the entire area they had overflown in the day during the night, he could lose not a minute of the hours of darkness.

"Why don't you ask the captain to slow down?" asked Yvaine one evening, after Septimus checkmated her in three moves. She wasn't sure that she wasn't actually getting worse... But she thought _he_ looked rather tired.

Tristan made a sound of immense indignation. Septimus ignored him, clearly having no idea the cause of this latest disapproving sound. Tristan and Septimus hadn't exactly talked much.

Septimus merely grimaced.

"You don't know much about sky vessels, I see," he replied mildly. "We're running with the wind. We have no sails set, and we obviously cannot take down the gas bag. We cannot slow down any more."

Tristan suddenly looked incensed.

"So that's why Captain Shakespeare took the sails in three days ago!" he exclaimed. "He muttered something about technical difficulties... technical difficulties my..." he broke off with a glance at Yvaine, glowered at Septimus, and marched out of the room, clearly to confront the Captain with his exploded attempt at evasion.

"He's in a hurry to get home," Septimus remarked wryly, then paused, seeming caught in sudden reflection. "Hmm," he said at last, "If _I_ were on the _human_ side of the Wall I'd be awfully keen to get home as well." He gave a shudder that was not quite so wholly mock as he intended it to be.

Yvaine contemplated the human side of the Wall herself for a few moments. A cold rocky fate was all that awaited her _there_.

"He has a sweetheart waiting, you know," she said, only half-absently. Anything that would help increase Septimus's forbearance towards a young man still seemingly bent on antagonising their powerful guest...

"Oh?" said the king, his lips arching in a decidedly knowing smile. His eyes glinted at her. "His haste is even _more_ understandable."

There was a touch of heat in his gaze that had nothing at all to do with Tristan and Yvaine glanced back at the chess board, her cheeks igniting in unnerving response. Septimus's smile became less knowing and a shade more... tender. He was quite aware that she had not volunteered the information casually, but in truth, he suspected she overestimated Tristan's danger.

As it happened, he bore hapless, foolish, naïve young men and boys rather better than most things. They amused him. They were too incompetent to trigger his defensive instincts, so their blundering and glowering, and puffed up bold words merely tickled his, admittedly fairly black, sense of humour. Older or more experienced men presented a real threat, those he would slay from necessity, offense, or even mere irritation. But _they_ ought to know better. Tristan... Tristan was downright amusing. He made Bernard look boring. Although, actually, Bernard had been rather boring. Too obsequious by half, and with roughly the intellect of a goat. Tristan had a bit of backbone, to be sure. He might even make a reasonable enough man some day. But as yet, he was a boy, and an entertaining one. Yipping and yapping like a dog jealous of its bone. Septimus's brows drew together rather sharply. It was _not_ Tristan's bone. He straightened his brow with effort. The lad was merely showing a suitably gentlemanly interest in protecting a young woman alone. He had a sweetheart back home, over the wall, after all. He'd be gone soon enough.

Yvaine had absentmindedly reset the board, and Septimus proceeded to move a pawn forward. Yvaine contemplated her move slightly glumly.

"You can't really be enjoying this," she sighed. "I'm terrible."

"Yes," returned the king dryly, "and three days after I learned to play I reached my current level of competency. What do you expect?"

Yvaine shrugged acknowledgment of this, and moved her own pawn. Lose consistently as she might, she enjoyed the games, but she felt she ought to give him the chance to duck out. He might have anticipated a rather more apt pupil when he'd proposed the lessons. Although she had a feeling he might be _rather_ good himself.

"You can put your feet here," Yvaine said, shifting forward a fraction and drawing the cushion up to her back. She patted the space between cushion and couch back. "It won't inconvenience me."

He had just settled himself on the spare three quarters of her couch, and as usual he looked rather scrunched up. He contemplated the space indicated for a moment, as though weighing up whether pin and needles upon waking outweighed being able to stretch out, and finally slid his feet into place.

"Let me know if it does," he said firmly, drew his coat up, closed his eyes, and was out like a light. She wished she could master the knack of sleeping like that.

Captain Shakespeare came in after a while, looking downright downhearted.

"What's wrong?" Yvaine asked.

"Oh, nothing," said the captain, with a glance at the recumbent monarch.

"Nothing!" exclaimed Tristan, who had entered with the captain. "The cook said...!"

"Yes, yes," said the captain, flapping a hand at his young companion, but there was a trace of more real irritation in his voice as he went on, "He's eating us out of house and home! Ship and galley, certainly, that's all."

Septimus didn't open his eyes, but spoke calmly and rather coldly.

"Want that I should arrive tomorrow at the prow of a lightning patrol boat, _captain_?"

"No, no," said the captain hastily, "I was not complaining. Merely an observation, no more."

Septimus did not bother to reply, and the captain shot Tristan an angry look, as though blaming him for the incautious words that had been drawn from his own lips. Yvaine rolled her eyes and went back to studying the chess board, moving pieces here and there as she planned her next cunning... defeat, no doubt.

"Five moves," said Septimus. "You're getting better."

"Hardly," said Yvaine, with a wry snort.

He gave her a little censorious poke with his bare toe. His socks were being washed, by more competent hands than Yvaine's, this time.

"Without doubt," he said.

Privately, Yvaine thought it more likely that his increasing tiredness was affecting his own performance, but she did not venture to say so. She was becoming quite worried about him. His eyes were becoming hollows, face thin and sharp and pinched. He was expending far too much energy in keeping up with the search. Even copious quantities of food couldn't entirely make up for it. But he would not waver. After so long, he felt he might finally find his sister, nay, he was sure that he would, if only he could keep searching long enough.

She shook her futile concerns from her head, and seized with a sudden, irresistible curiosity, she slipped a hand behind her back, seized the royal foot, and conducted an experiment. His quickly suppressed flinch was gratifying. The king was ticklish. She continued the experiment, and his smothered snort was even more gratifying. Tristan gave him an odd look, and pointedly turned back to his book.

Septimus went on the offensive, his bare foot slipping around the cushion, evading her hands, and rubbing slow circles on her back. She hadn't realised quite how thin her dress was... Heat burned in her face, but she found his foot again. This time her fingers moved slowly, mirroring his own motion... She licked her lips, and it was a while before she dared to steal a glance at him. He breathed slightly fast, but met her gaze firmly.

It was a... game... easier started then stopped. To her relief, as they turned their attention determinedly back to the chess set, some of heat eased, but he continued to prod her at strategic intervals, and she to tickle him back mercilessly, until they were both in a state of mild hysteria. Or she certainly was, at any rate. Tristan greeted her latest outburst of choked giggles with a rather challenging look at the king.

"What are you _doing_ to her?" he demanded fiercely.

Septimus raised his eyebrows and looked so innocent that Yvaine's control collapsed entirely, and she flopped back on the coach, almost crying with laughter. The Captain's gaze, from his desk across the room, was considerably more knowing and rather more anxious than Tristan's indignantly uncomprehending one.

"Yvaine," said Captain Shakespeare, catching her as she made to follow Tristan on deck to begin a night's lightning catching.

"Captain?" she said, surprised at his serious expression.

"Yvaine," he said firmly, sitting her back on her couch. "There's no easy way to broach this subject, so I'm going to be fairly blunt. This dalliance of yours with the king. You must be careful."

Yvaine blinked at him.

"Dalliance?" she echoed, astonished. "There is no... dalliance! What do you think we have been _doing_?"

Captain Shakespeare made a dismissive gesture,

"I do not accuse you of _doing_ anything, Yvaine," he said, "but think about your position. I know what you told Tristan, but I'm pretty sure the king has the right of it. You are a lady of good birth, fleeing an unattractive match, that much is clear. But consider your future. As a lady, a good match is still your surest path to happiness and security. A _friend_ at the court of Stormhold can bring you only good." He laid great emphasis on the word friend. "So go... carefully. Think, Yvaine," he said, looking almost distressed to say such things to her. "He is the king of all Stormhold. He has had whatever he wants his entire life. His personal quest binds him to this ship at the moment, where there is... little in the way of entertainment. Bear that in mind. And bear in mind also, that the King of Stormhold will surely marry the princess of a neighbouring kingdom. Unless your secret identity is far more lofty than I imagine it to be..." he trailed off, and gave her a direct look. "Do you understand what I am saying, Yvaine?"

Yvaine looked at him in disbelief. It was nothing less than what she had already thought to herself, did he think her a complete idiot?

"Captain Shakespeare," she said at last, in a rather tight, controlled voice. "I quite understand you and you have told me nothing of which I am not already aware. But I thank you for your concern." That last came out rather stiffer than she had intended.

Captain Shakespeare's concern seemed scarcely abated.

"Yvaine," he said again, anxiously, "do you really understand what I mean when I say be careful? The heart is not so easily controlled as the mind."

Yvaine couldn't help snorting softly at that. The man to whom _she_ unwittingly gave her heart would have quite a surprise in store for him!

"I understand you, Captain," she said, rather more gently. The captain could not know, after all, just how great a barrier truly existed between the monarch and herself. Could not know that the first opportunity she had to get away from him, dark and handsome and fascinating as he might be, would surely be seized.

Septimus inspected yet another cottage housing nothing but a peasant farmer, wife and five sleeping children, and flew on. His wings ached and his head was heavy and fogged with exhaustion. His mind wandered. Find his sister, yes, and then what? Back to Huon, hold his coronation; a mere formality for the populace, but important all the same. And then... rule. For the first time since his twelfth birthday, he was safe. He could finally think about life _after_ finding the stone. Actually make plans... He was still getting used to this _after_. To this rest of his life, stretching away before him. Perhaps some tiny, bleak, pessimistic part of himself had never really expected to have it. Or perhaps it was something more positive, a self defense mechanism, shutting the future from his view so that he might more completely focus on the deadly, dangerous present. But... life. Ruling. Politics, battle, perhaps... he could do whatever he wanted.

A wife? The thought swum up rather insistently, as though it had been lurking there, waiting to arise to the surface. Yes, he conceded to himself, a wife was perfectly possible. Suitable, appropriate, even. A woman all his own. Heirs. Pleasant thoughts. Wife, he rolled it absently in his mind. A princess, perhaps. A golden haired princess. He frowned suddenly. On the very, very few occasions when he'd pictured himself on the throne, a faceless queen at his side, she'd always been, nicely colour coordinated, dark hair to match his own. A fair haired woman? Perhaps, he thought, attempting to steer his mind by sheer brute willpower away from the fair haired women who leapt most readily to mind. I said a princess, he scolded his subconscious. A princess is only proper. And politically expedient.

But that golden hair... his mind sighed. Unsuitable, he snapped. Then his small head also snapped up as a dark shadow flit between himself and the moon, and his wings beat the air in a quick stroke, swerving...

Too late. Talons tore through his back and he cawed harshly in pain. He drew his wings in entirely, allowing gravity to pull him from the owl's clutch, and letting himself drop like a stone in a blind, uncontrolled dive. The owl screeched above him, cheated, furious. Deadly. He sensed rather than saw it stooping after him again. He flung out his wings at the last moment, the air catching them and yanking him around, painfully, awkwardly in the air as the owl flashed past him, missing him by inches. Seconds for the owl to slow, seconds for it to recover, he beat his wings fiercely, accelerating into the trees, adrenalin blocking the pain from his mauled back.

Ten minutes later, he felt confidence enough that he had lost the larger bird to venture out of the treetops again, heading upwards, back towards the Caspardine. He did not allow himself to perch in the trees, even for a minute. His back burned now, agony coursing through him with each wing beat, but he could not falter. He could feel the blood dripping from him, but if he did not regain the ship now, his chances of doing so were non existent. And if he lost the ship, he lost the search pattern.

He ploughed on through the night, senses narrowing dangerously as exhaustion sought to drop him on the wing. He must not loose the ship. He must not loose the ship. The ship that the golden-haired woman was on...


	2. Part 2

Part 7

_**Part 7**_

Yvaine had found herself spared the long wet night on deck when the captain informed her that the king had made it clear that he did not consider it suitable for her to be subjected to such work. The lightning collecting was not unbearable, but she didn't feel too sorry. Although, clearly the captain's 'ill-gotten gains' were now expected to support Lady Yvaine as well as King Septimus. She felt rather guilty about that, but the captain clearly had no intention of allowing her to do any more work, so she settled back on her couch with a book. After a while she put it aside and tried to sleep, but sleep eluded her. The captain's grave-faced warning turned in her mind, interspersed with the memory of a certain foot rubbing over her back. Perhaps I do need to try harder, she thoughtful glumly, but it's not like I can get off this ship! Avoiding him will hardly keep a royal friend, she thought rationally. And it's not like he's given any sign of playing the spoilt prince who wants to unwrap a pretty package whether it belongs to him or not. _Oh_... she thought suddenly in frustration. This is silly reasoning. As though you _were_ a runaway noblewoman. You don't need a friend at court. The last place you're going is court, where _he'll_ be. You _can_ avoid him, and you should try to do so. She sighed slightly, for it was not the course of action that held the most appeal for her, but she was forced to concede that in her situation it was the safest and most practical.

Right, she told herself. Sensible conclusion reached. You avoid him. Now go to sleep. She closed her eyes firmly, but after only a few moment a quiet creak opened them again and drew them to the window, which had just swung slowly, hesitantly open. Loose catch, she thought, irritated, and rose, but before she could reach it a dark shape clawed and fluttered its way over the sill and fell to the floor with a wet splat. It lay there motionless.

"_Septimus?_" she gasped, shocked. What was _wrong_?

She seized the lamp from beside her, turning the wick up higher, and hurried to kneel beside him. She put a hand to his feathery back and felt dampness... in the lamplight her palm came away dripping crimson. Blood. He was hurt. She sprang up and more dived than walked around the cabin, re-lighting the lamps until there was a chance she could see properly. Returning, she saw the raven's head move slightly, and placed two gentle, restraining fingers on his breast,

"Wait, your Majesty," she urged, guessing what his next action would be. Then she lifted the limp feathery bundle as gently as she could and, out of fleeting thought for the couch's upholstery, laid it atop the blanket.

"Now, your Majesty," she said gently, and the king was before her in his less-avian form.

Placing her own mobile lamp as close as she could, she peered for the source of blood. It was at least easier to see now that he was larger... She located a collection of horribly deep slices in his upper back and shuffled and stretched to seize a spare shirt of Tristan's from the opposite couch. It was only after she'd pressed it to the king's back that she realised that unlike most of his clothes, which had come from Catpain Shakespeare, this was actually the one he'd brought with him from the human realm. No doubt he'd be delighted. Sod it, she thought, I really can't care less right now. She wasn't quite sure what to do with the king's shirt, which was torn and stuck to the wound under the shirt-padding. Lifting her improvised bandage for as little time as possible, she worked it carefully up, peeling it from the cuts, and after a moment, wriggled it from him entirely and used it instead of Tristan's, which was already reduced to a bloody rag.

How much blood has he lost? she thought in horror. His skin was pale, naturally or unnaturally, she could not tell, and trembled under her searching fingertips. She hooked his black hair back from his face and winced. That was definitely pale, dead white, in fact, a sheen of cold sweat on his brow. He seemed barely conscious. Was he cold? she wondered. Should she try to warm him? She needed help... Which should she do first, try and ensure the bleeding was stopped? She was by no means sure that it was, yet. Or go in search of an experienced member of crew? His eyes flickered slightly, was he regaining some awareness? She reached out to touch his forehead and his hand clamped around her wrist with such manic strength that she gasped in pain. A gust of wind struck the ship so hard that she felt it rock in the air and he twisted, his free hand lunging to his belt...

"It's me," she gasped, "it's me, your Majesty, Yvaine. It's alright..."

His hand stilled and he sank back on the couch, his grip loosening from her arm. She completed her investigative touch... clammy, but there was something else, rising heat...

"Yvaine," he whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, your Majesty?" she replied anxiously.

"I... I'm rather... rather prone..." he bit the words out as though the acknowledgement was something he made against his better judgement.

"...to fever?" she finished with rather apprehensive certainty. She could swear his forehead was hotter already.

"Fine," he snarled. "I'm fine..." His eyes flicked with the look of a cornered animal. A sick, cornered animal. "Shouldn't have come here..." he gasped out.

"It's fine," she told him, as soothingly as she could. "We'll take care of you, there's nothing to worry about."

"No," he whispered vehemently, "no _we_, no one knows... no one must..."

Footsteps echoed in the passage... his eyes rolled that way, and she saw the terror in them, irrational, deep-rooted... This was his nightmare, she realised, to be sick where people could get to him. His entire life he'd known such a situation to be quite literally a death sentence. A memory came back to her, a boy, lying atop the Storm Hold in a torrential rainstorm, shaking with fever and shivering with cold at once, huddling to the meagre warmth of the great chimney stacks... she'd pitied that poor sick child, who must needs take himself off alone to live or die as best he could. It had never occurred to her then, to wonder how he'd got up there...

The doorknob rattled, and his hand dropped to his dagger, his face a savage mask. Fear makes killers of us all, thought Yvaine, who was it said that? The door began to open, the ship swayed violently under the buffeting wind, and the dagger began to slide from the sheath. She reached out and grabbed his hand, with a sick feeling that it was the most dangerous thing she had ever done in her long life.

"It's alright," she hissed to him, "no one will come near you, I promise," and looking up to Tristan's entering form, she snapped,

"Out, Tristan."

The young man stared at her in disbelief.

"_Out_?" he queried incredulously.

"Yes, out," reiterated Yvaine, putting all the authority she possibly could into her voice. She was pretty sure the king would slay absolutely anyone he perceived as any kind of threat whatsoever just now, to get them out of the way while he was still capable of doing so. "No one is to come in here," she added, iron in her voice. "The king's insists upon it."

There must have been something about her expression, because for once, Tristan did as he was told and withdrew, shutting the door behind him. Cautiously, Yvaine relaxed her grip on the king's dagger hand.

"No one will come in here," she said again. "I promise. There's nothing to worry about."

The king's face screwed up with indecision and confusion, and his head twisted slightly, from side to side, anguished and afraid. She felt his forehead again... the fever was mounting rapidly. Was it wrong to hope that he would soon be incapable of... paranoia?

She returned her attention to his back. The bleeding was almost stopped. She fetched water and washed the dried blood away as best she could, then searched out some fresh, clean cloth to lay there as a more permanent covering. Stealing Tristan's blanket from his coach, she laid it carefully over the king and fetched a bowl of clean water and a cloth. She gently wiped his hot forehead, watching over him as his wild eyes gradually became fever-dull and pain-filled as delirium sucked away terror and awareness both. It seemed a mercy. His clenched hand relaxed and lay quiet beside his dagger hilt. She considered disarming him, remembering that manic strength, and judging that it might make her nursing considerably safer. But somehow it seemed so great a breech of trust, she could not do it. For he had certainly trusted her. He had not slain her, had allowed her to remain there with him as he slipped into helplessness, if he woke and found she had taken away his weapons... she thought the words 'never forgive' probably wouldn't really cover it.

And what does that matter? she demanded of herself irritably. All the better if it did destroy his interest in you. But she left his blades where they were. He's safe right now, anyway, she reflected. Now, what do I need? she thought more seriously. Proper bandages... salve... aren't there teas that help with fever? Well, she told herself after a moment, I never said I wouldn't _speak_ to anyone. And she went to the door.

As it happened, both Tristan and the captain were lurking just outside. They sprang at her rather clamorously, so she put a finger firmly to her lips.

"The king has suffered a few scratches and wishes to be left alone to rest," she understated smoothly. "I'm sorry, Tristan, but he was most insistent. You will have to sleep elsewhere." Tristan looked irritated,

"Scratches," he said scathingly. "Looked like a bloody slaughterhouse in there."

When Yvaine just looked back at him impassively and volunteered no more information, he snorted in disgust and stalked off. The captain lingered. "Ah, you too, captain," said Yvaine apologetically. "But, ah... would you happen to have a few bandages and things? A tea for fever, perhaps; the king is just very slightly feverish."

The captain gave her a level look.

"I'll see you get everything," he said. "Ah, how strong should the tea be?" he asked.

Yvaine shot him a look. Oh, stars, it was Septimus who distrusted everyone, not her.

"As strong as possible," she replied. "The king should... have the best, you know," she added rather fatuously. The captain gave her a firm nod, and she knew that they were understanding one another. She went back inside and closed the door, returning to her patient.

And how did I get made royal physician? she pondered, as she wielded the damp cloth once more. Trust, my dear, herself answered her. The sole criteria here is trust.

A short time later Yvaine was looking from the threaded needle to the monarch and trying to keep her supper in her stomach. I'm going to die, she thought, terrified herself. Surely he'll kill me? She examined him again. He seemed barely conscious at all, sunk deep in his fever world, but... she was about to stick a needle in him. Repeatedly. Well, one thing was for sure, she reflected, he really wasn't going to remember anything from right now... She took one of the captain's silk cravats and tied his wrists together firmly. Right. That seemed just a little bit more sane. She mustn't waste any more time. She bent over the still determinedly seeping wounds and began to sew. To her immense relief, he did not appear to notice. He must be in _terrible_ pain already, she thought, and the realisation wrenched her heart. She sewed carefully and was finally glad she had had that little tussle with his socks. His back was easier than his socks, and she managed a tolerably neat job. She smeared each cut thickly with the infection-fighting salve and bandaged carefully. When all was done she rather hastily removed the guilty cravat from his wrists...

Septimus swam slowly to consciousness. The long unthinking haze of fever, too familiar torment, was gone. His back hurt... ah, that damn owl. His own damn fault, though, he thought mercilessly. Allowing himself to be distracted, flying around as though he hadn't a care in the world. He could smell something lovely... what? And where, come to that, and how safe? He jerked his eyes open, peering stubbornly through the dawn light. He lay on his side, and his pretty nurse lay beside him, fallen asleep, weary from long hours tending him. Her hair lay in a glorious heap just beside his face, and it was that he could smell. It smelt like... a clear winter night, he thought. A clear winter night drenched with starlight. He jerked his eyes from her with effort; she was distracting him _again_, and flicked them around the room. Empty. She'd kept her word.

Surely queen material, that one, princess or no? said a small part of him insistently. I shouldn't even consider it, he thought doubtfully. But he was very aware of a small, primeval part of him jumping up and down in the back of his mind, pointing and shouting, _that_ one, I want _that_ one. He wasn't sure he could easily shut it up. What about a princess, anyway? he thought rather sourly. If you find Una you can marry her to a prince, how about that? Come to think of it, Secundus had kindly left him three bastard nieces, hadn't he? He could marry them off. Well, in another five years, perhaps. He made a mental review of what princesses were available in neighbouring kingdoms. It was a depressing exercise. Really a question of what type of bestiality he could most easily put up with, cow, horse or toad, he thought rather uncharitably. I couldn't sleep near one of them, he thought glumly, it would have to be business, then back to the safety of my own bed. Definitely a political marriage. He wouldn't have thought about it once... but... waking to find a beautiful woman you liked sleeping peacefully beside you was actually a rather pleasant experience. He rather thought he'd like to repeat it. Calm down, he chided himself. I'll consider Yvaine, alright? I will consider it. Happy now? The insistent part of himself skipped around the back of his mind in ecstatic circles, as though he'd promised more than he had. He held up his mental fingers to his foolish self in a rude gesture.

The king's recovery was pretty swift. The captain's salve managed to fend off any further attack of fever, and once the king was sitting upright again, Tristan and the captain were permitted to return to their respective beds. He retained Yvaine's services for bandage changing, however.

"It's healing well," Yvaine said, straightening from her inspection of the king's other back, the feathery one. "I... don't think you should fly yet, though. You'll rip it open again... I think..." she traced the wing muscles across his back as best she could. "I really think you will," she added, keen to convince him. He turned to regard her with tilted head and beady golden eyes, then he sat before her on the edge of the table. His hands snaked out to her shoulders and his bare feet hooked around the back of her legs, drawing her a little closer.

"I'll take your word for it," he said softly, "you've not played me false yet."

I have, she thought, but you don't know it, or I wouldn't be standing here. His feet rubbed at the back her legs, drawing her slightly off balance, and her hands flew out to steady herself, landing squarely on his thighs. Her face went crimson as they stared at each other from about a foot apart.

"Have I ever mentioned how beautiful you are?" he said lightly, as though discussing the weather.

Her mouth felt dry,

"No," she whispered. Her hands still lay atop his very solid thighs and he drew her closer still...

"This country is _awful_! The weather is _rubbish_!" Tristan squelched into the room, grumbling loudly. Yvaine stepped back and turned away from the king quickly, heart racing, rationally relieved, emotionally frustrated.

"Would you prefer lightning?" snapped Septimus. "It can be arranged..."

Tristan blinked at him, clearly finding the king's anger rather disproportionate to his not unusual complaints.

"No," he said warily. "Sun would be good," he added more challengingly.

Septimus stared at him dangerously for a long moment, but finally blew his breath out in a long, irate sigh.

"How about hail?" he said with a flash of more humorous wickedness. On cue it began to patter on the windows. Tristan's draw dropped.

Stars, I hope he never finds out about me, thought Yvaine. He's so powerful, how could I ever get away? She rotated her neck, trying to ease the ache instilled by a long, careful re-bandaging and examination session. She wanted a breath of air.

"I'd go on deck," she sighed, "but the weather has deteriorated even more."

"On the contrary," said Septimus, "there's a limit to how much I'm prepared to meddle on a mere whim, but there will certainly be no more precipitation for a while. The sun may even break through. Perhaps rainbows. Up you go." He settled himself slightly gingerly back on the couch, quite capable, now, of going on deck, but still sore enough to gain no pleasure from the exercise. Yvaine beamed at him in thanks, picked up her cloak, and hastened out.

Some time later, the captain joined her at the rail.

"Aye," he sighed, "I could not stay down there another moment."

Yvaine covered a smile.

"Septimus and Tristan arguing again?"

"I wish," was the unexpected response. "Worse, talking! His Majesty was, I assume, a little bored with all this convalescing, and addressed a few words to Tristan, Tristan, quite frankly, was flattered the king was finally speaking to him in such a way. And they are now talking. Or to be more accurate, Tristan is talking. About _Victoria_," he said, rolling his eyes in despair.

"Oh!" giggled Yvaine, "poor Septimus. How much can he take, I wonder, before he stabs him!" But for all her hilarity, something about the news niggled at her, touched some hidden anxiety, and it wasn't long before she abandoned the deck, pleasant as it was, and returned to the cabin.

There was silence when she got there, though. Tristan was fumbling busily in his rucksack, and the king watching with rather narrow-eyed curiosity. The look he gave her as she came and sat beside him was decidedly unsettling.

"Ah, Yvaine," he said softly, "Tristan is about to show me the star he is taking back to his true love."

Yvaine swayed as though he'd punched her in the stomach. Terror dropped over her like a brick wall, like a breaking wave, filling every inch of her. Of course! How could she have been so blind? But Tristan and Septimus had been so estranged, and Tristan, at her advice, so very jealous of his rock. She thought she'd rigged it so he'd never show it to anyone! But... oh, sun and moon, _flattered_...

Tristan produced the cloth wrapped bundle and threw the wrappings proudly aside.

"There, your Majesty," he said, staring at it lovingly, "is it not a beautiful star?"

"Yes," purred Septimus, "it is." But his eyes were not on the rock, they were on Yvaine, and the look in them was unholy.

Yvaine could feel all the blood draining from her face, from her whole body, or so it seemed. She felt cold, and trembled. This is how it ends, she thought dimly, her head ringing, my long long life, my oh so brief life, at the hand of the man, in some other reality, I might have loved...

The king still looked at her, his lips a cruel curve, and his eyes... his eyes were _hungry_. Ravenous. She shuddered, hugging herself with her arms. No escape. Septimus held out his hand to her,

"My lady," he said silkily, "you look pale. Perhaps some more fresh air?"

Yvaine swallowed, moistening dry lips. You should stay with Tristan, said a little voice of reason in her terrified mind. He is the only person on this ship you can trust. He'll try to protect you. Yes, he'll try, she thought... she saw it so clearly, Tristan's sword, half-drawn, his blood, pouring scarlet on the wooden floorboards, his eyes, blank and surprised as a slaughtered ox... No. Not that. What possible good could it do? She didn't want anyone to die for her.

She took the king's hand. He had to help her to her feet, for her legs wobbled under her, but once she was up she stood determinedly firm. Then, as Tristan still gazed at his rock, oblivious, she allowed the king to lead her from the room...

_**Part 8**_

For all his savage delight upon discovering that she was a star, by the time they had completed the short walk up to the deck, it seemed to have dimmed somewhat. Septimus walked her to the prow and released her hand, leaning both his own on the rail and looking out. He'd stopped her beside a bit of functional ship's furniture that could double well enough as a seat, but she ignored it. At this juncture, she thought she'd rather remain standing, for her self-respect, if nothing else. Running was scarcely option. She stared at his harsh profile for some time, as they stood there in silence. Frustration and anguish built in her chest until she could hold it back no longer.

"Why you?" she exclaimed, just as he finally turned back to her with a snarled,

"Why _you_?"

They both closed their lips rather abruptly and looked at one another in discomfort.

"Why _me_?" he prompted at last, with a flatness that clearly hid some deeper emotion.

Yvaine looked at her hands for a moment, fiddling absentmindedly with the tail end of a piece of rope.

"Why you," she murmured. "I... I... _like_ you, dammit!"

He assayed a would-be smile,

"Surely you ought therefore to be glad that you will be the means of such a benefit to... someone you like," he said lightly, but the smile slid sickly off his face even before the lightness sunk from his tone like lead. Still, she was stung enough to snap back at him,

"It doesn't work like that and you know it!" Anyone, anyone but him... perhaps she should cry out to all the pirates on board what she was and hope that one of them got to her first... only then he might well die in the scrum... and if it was a choice between _that_, and letting him be the one... Sun and moon, there is no logic in any heart, she thought, star's or otherwise.

"Why _me_?" she asked him, after a moment.

He blinked and his eyes narrowed, lines suddenly engraving themselves on his face in the places where they would be when he was forty.

"Because I was thinking of asking you to marry me, what do you think?" he snarled, swinging away again to hide the nakedness of his face in the void below the ship. The breath slipped from Yvaine as though he'd knocked it from her, and she sank down on the would-be seat, staring at him. The back of his head, anyway. No, definitely no spoilt prince, she thought dimly... oh, if only she _were_ a runaway noblewoman... She forced the make-believe hurriedly from her mind.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, irrationally, but his pain hurt her, even when she was fairly sure he was in the process of talking himself into killing her. She got to her feet again, but he stared out for quite some time before finally swinging around with such abruptness that she started slightly in fear, thinking that the time had come.

But he simply seized her arms tightly and drew her close, eyes drilling into hers.

"Is it true," he demanded harshly, "that there are two ways for a man to gain a star's heart?"

Yvaine blinked and saw the tiny ray of hope that must also have lit into his mind.

"Well... yes..." she said hesitantly. "There's the barbaric method, with a dagger, akin to the old 'marriage by capture', have you ever heard of that?" she added in a flash of whimsy. He seemed to follow her, so his history lessons had been thorough enough. "Or there's the civilised method," she concluded softly, "akin to... well... normal marriage," she finished lamely. "For those of lower station, at any rate," she added, recalling that most kings and nobles did not consider true love an important element of matchmaking. He clearly understood her, though, for he still stared at her, his gaze rather shuttered.

"And is there," he asked, "any chance at all that you might... that..." he broke off and shook his head in violent self-contempt,

"Oh!" he exclaimed, "as though you would tell me if there were not!"

Yvaine spoke quickly, seeing the chance slipping away, seeking to avoid having him do in haste something that they both might regret very much. He would, admittedly, be regretting it for considerably longer than she...

She raised a hand, her fingers brushing his lips to cut off his furious words, and settling lightly against his chest.

"Septimus," she said softly, "Truly, I think it would be... most precipitous of you to be too hasty about this. I think there is... a definite chance." she finished. Believe me, she willed him, gazing up into his bleak eyes, believe me for I speak the truth. I have been fighting it, but it is there, ripe to grow...

He still stared at her, and she could see the doubt warring in his eyes, that she spoke thus only in self defence, that she lied...

"I can hardly go anywhere, can I?" she added with quiet pragmatism, her fingers rising to touch the strong plane of his cheek.

His eyes settled a little. The truth of her statement was self-evident. His hand slid from her arm to her back, encircling her, drawing her closer. They looked at one another almost nose to nose, and hearts fled from their minds. Or perhaps to their minds. Certainly, lips had become the all consuming focus of their attention. The union of lips the eagerly approaching goal... There was nothing else in Yvaine's mind. He was so close, his arms so warm, nothing but his eyes in her eyes and his scent in her nose, strong and musky... She stretched eagerly to him...

"Yvaine! Hey! Leave her alone!" Tristan's strident tones broke the spell. Yvaine flinched, at the harshness of reality intruding on that magic moment. Septimus snarled like an angry wolf and his hand dropped to his dagger. Yvaine turned and put her back to him, deliberately obstructing his dagger hand.

"Tristan," she advised fairly bluntly. "Go away."

Tristan looked taken aback at this well meant piece of advice, and did not seem inclined to take it,

"What were you _doing_?" he protested. Septimus began to manoeuvre past Yvaine.

Captain Shakespeare, clearly with a rather maturer grasp of what the lad had interrupted, dropped an arm around Tristan's shoulders and steered him towards the comparative safety of below decks.

"Come along Tristan," the captain said genially, "I'll explain a few things to you, shall I?"

Yvaine managed to hold back her snort at this until Tristan had disappeared, but only just. When she'd regained her composure she turned back to the king and they looked at one another silently. But the moment was passed, and the possibilities of bloody daggers and death hung between them like a poisonous fog. After a while he put a hand to each side of her face and stared at her.

"We'll wait and see," he stated. "Give it... some time. Don't... go anywhere."

Yvaine shook her head mutely, feeling like a prisoner giving her parole. As bargains go, it could be worse, she thought. She got to live a little longer, on the condition that she didn't try to escape him. And if she could truly love him, if she could manage to give him her heart, then she could live... a lot longer.

It was half his already, she was quite aware, but in this case... half... definitely buttered no parsnips. It was an all or nothing situation. The heart was not so easily controlled as the mind... but could she truly fall all the way in love with a man she feared might kill her if she did not?

_**Part 9**_

Yvaine's thoughts were becoming oppressive, and she could not hold back a rather heavy sigh. The king sat at the end of the couch, as ever, and he responded to her evident distress by drawing her to him. She laid her head on his lap and made herself comfortable. His hands ran soothingly over her hair, and she felt better. But her lips quirked at the bitter irony, that he who caused her anxieties could also comfort her so. She glanced up at him, and saw his own mouth twist in ironic awareness. What to do? she wondered, as she lay there, looking up at him, and he stroked her hair and stared down at her unhappily. She took comfort from the very man who threatened her life, and still her feelings for him were either not enough, or too much, depending on how one looked at it. Certainly, the heart in her chest was still her own. His hand rested lightly on her lower ribcage, fingers lying between her breasts. Over her heart. She searched his face for his thoughts, but she could not tell. Temptation? Or simple misery? Or both combined.

Her heart beat steadily under his questing fingers, and he considered the sensation. The abstract idea of a star's heart still made him salivate, but _her_ heart, under his fingers, beating, that was a satisfying thing. The idea of it stilled, of _her_ stilled into the marble silence of death that he knew so well... it appalled him. But to pass up eternal life, for a woman? He saw his father's gaze, astonished and scornful. Go back to hell, he told the ghostly figure in his mind. I have done everything that you want. They are all dead, and i am king. You have no more power over me. This decision is entirely mine.

Perhaps it would not come to a decision. The way she looked at him... perhaps she would give it to him freely. Render the decision unnecessary. That is the coward's way out, whispered a little voice in his mind. How can she truly love you, forever wondering? She must, he thought fiercely. She will. She has to. The alternative was too ghastly to think about.

He went on stroking her golden hair, and eventually, tired by her churning fears and confusions, and eased by his warmth and comfort, she slept. No less wearied by his mind's restless activity, the king soon dropped asleep as well.

"Yvaine?" the words were very soft.

She blinked awake and looked into the captain's earnest face.

"Yvaine, a word," he said.

"Now?" she murmured blearily, looking about her. It was dark outside the cabin windows, and the captain held a lamp.

"Yes," he said, with a rather covert glance at the king. She glanced that way as well, and saw that he slept. He'd slid from a sitting position to a more comfortable horizontal one at some point in the evening, and she disentangled herself as carefully as possible and followed the captain into the privacy of his bedchamber.

"Whatever is it?" she asked, as the captain closed the doors carefully and set the lamp on a table.

"You were glowing, my lady," he told her bluntly. "I feared lest the king wake and see it."

Yvaine gasped and automatically backed a step. The captain raised his hands in reassurance.

"I know what you are, Yvaine," he said. "I'm not blind, and Tristan's tale confirmed it for me when i drew it from him. But you need fear no harm from me. I am concerned merely about your safety."

Yvaine stared at him,

"Does... everyone know?" she asked weakly.

"Ah, no," said Captain Shakespeare. "I truly believe that none of my crew would hurt you, but... a star's heart... prudence compels me to keep the information to myself. But... we must get you away from the king."

Yvaine blinked.

"How?" she asked. "We're only two days from the lake near the wall, and no landing places before, am i right?"

"Yes," conceded the captain, "but in a lesser way, at least, lest he find out what you are. It seems that... sleeping beside him is unwise, if you are going to... glow like that. I propose that i give up my bedchamber to you. I should perhaps have done so from the beginning... I will have a pallet made up in the cabin."

Yvaine finally managed to get a word in.

"Captain, captain!" she exclaimed, "I thank you for your concern, truly, but this is to no account. His majesty knows what i am. He too, inferred more from Tristan's tale than does Tristan himself. It is too late."

The captain looked truly shocked.

"Then if he knows, and we cannot get you off the ship," he cried, "only one thing remains then, to get _him_ off!"

Yvaine's mind shrunk from the implications of these well-meant words.

"Captain!" she said, "please, that is quite unnecessary. The matter is as much in hand as is possible and you must believe me when i say that you cannot help me. I am very grateful for your concern and your silence, but you must leave this to me. Resolution lies between myself and his majesty, and no others."

The captain looked at her uncomprehendingly,

"But Yvaine," he pointed out, "what bargain could you possibly make with a man such as that, about something like _this_? If he has stayed his hand thus far, it is only because he wishes to be able to fly away with his prize and seeks to give his back the longest possible time to heal. He will surely strike before we land near the wall."

"Captain!" said Yvaine, frustrated by his lack of belief, "I tell you again, it is not in your power to help me. Please, stay silent and leave it to me, it is all you can do."

And she hastily made her escape from the room and went to sit back on her couch. Now their couch, as it was. Am i a fool? she wondered. Should i have accepted the captain's offer of assistance? But i would not see him harmed. I would not see _them_ harmed, for if they managed anything but killing him outright they would pay for it later... And the very fact i so fear for him surely shows that our hopes for a bloodless solution are not wholly in vain... So she reasoned, and then noticing that the object of her concern was awake, she smiled at him with an unusually (of late) unclouded face, as though to assure herself of his good health. He smiled back, sat up, demanded of the steward what had become of supper, and held her. She relaxed in the circle of his arms, his arms encircling her waist, his chin on her shoulder, his cheek against hers, scratching slightly with a day's growth of stubble.

He had of necessity decided that he would stay with the ship until they reached the lake, by which time he should be well enough recovered to take wing again, if less strenuously than before. But the captain, who was to fly back the way they had come, would be tacking into the wind on the return journey, which would give the king ample time to make a far more leisurely search of the area he had been forced to miss. Whether he would return straight to his search, though, Yvaine was unsure. How fast did he expect this matter between them to be concluded? Would he be prepared to leave it for as long as it took, in light of the fact that she could not leave Faerie and whilst she was within the bounds of Stormhold he could find her wheresoever she might be? Or would impatience get the better of him? Impatience, and fear of another stealing his prize? She snuggled back against him, and couldn't say.

And so the days passed, in distrust and affection, anxiety and comfort, cuddles and withdrawals as they wrestled with each other, and their own selves.

Hands seized her, pulled her from the couch, she twisted, blind in the sudden light. Tristan's voice, startled, exclaimed, "what on earth...?" The first mate's voice, much closer to her, menaced,

"Don't move, your Majesty."

She had to see! She forced her complaining eyes to stay open against the light. The crew were gathered around the couch, armed to the teeth. The bosun held her, and she pulled free of him indignantly. The first mate held a dagger to the king's throat, and the weapons of the others threatened him on all sides. The king stared up at them impassively through slitted eyes.

"What are you doing?" cried Yvaine, "what madness is this?"

Captain Shakespeare pushed his way abruptly through the throng and stood, biting his lip.

"Captain," challenged Yvaine, "what are they doing?"

The captain looked embarrassed.

"I felt it prudent to let my crew know of the king's unsavoury intentions towards you, lest things... come to a head today." They would be landing that day, Yvaine knew. "I... seem to have underestimated the esteem they feel for you; they are determined to forestall any such attempt."

Yvaine stared at him in disbelief. He'd told them _all_? Was he mad!

"You shall not lay a finger on Lady Yvaine," the first mate informed the king fiercely.

"What gives you the right to go around ravishing pretty women?" demanded the bosun rather self-righteously, in turn. Yvaine relaxed just slightly. Ah. The Captain had not told them _everything_...

The king stilled looked up at them, motionless under the deadly edge that pressed against his naked throat.

"This is treason," he said so softly that it was almost a hiss.

The first mate set his teeth and the bosun swallowed and tightened his grip on his sword. Yvaine's heart sunk as she realised that they knew perfectly well that it was treason and that nowhere would be far enough for them to run if they got it wrong. They did not mean to get it wrong. No half measures now that they had started.

"You're all insane!" she cried desperately. "You can't kill your king for something he hasn't even done! You've only the captain's word he intends any such thing. _I_ certainly deny that it is so!"

From the crew's expressions, the captain's word that they could all fly would have been quite sufficient evidence for them to leap off the ship entirely, and this argument therefore bore little weight. Tristan dithered uncertainly, his sword hilt clutched in his hand, not drawing... Unsure what side to draw it for, Yvaine could tell. She could see the first mate stealing himself, the others preparing resolutely to lend him moral support or physical force if required...

"This is murder!" she snarled, more angry than she could ever remember being. They ignored her, fixed on their self-appointed duty. Captain Shakespeare dithered slightly as well, but made no move to intervene. The first mate's muscles tensed. Yvaine dived forward, grabbing his arm and jerking it towards her with all the force and speed she could muster. The bosun lunged after her with a curse, but it was too late. A flurry of feathers, the window swung open with such violence that the glass shattered, and the king was gone.

The first mate stared at Yvaine, his face whitening.

"_Stars_, woman, you've killed us all!" he whispered, and she could hear the accusation in his voice, and that was too much.

"_No!_" she retorted, "You have killed yourselves! I had no part in this vicious madness!"

The crew clearly felt aggrieved that their gallantry was so unappreciated by the Lady Yvaine, but there was enough truth in her words that they simply filed from the cabin, apprehensive and uneasy. The captain remained, chewing his lip.

"I'll have the sails up," he said quietly. "We'll be at the lake in a few hours, get you two off this ship. You had no part in this."

Yvaine briefly considered remaining aboard the ship as a sort of human shield, but she was too angry to stay and protect a group of men who might well kill her themselves if they knew what she was.

"That's fair," she said, just as quietly. "That way Tristan can get home to Victoria in one piece."

Tristan was looking profoundly baffled by now.

"_What_ was that all about?" he demanded of Yvaine, as the captain left. Yvaine just shook her head wordlessly, so he hastened after the captain. Yvaine sank down on the couch, the wind ruffling her hair, staring at the broken window and feeling an absurd sense of desolation. Foolish, she knew, for he would find her again wherever she might be.

He surely would.

Yvaine trudged along the road beside Tristan, holding her short blue cloak around her and shivering slightly. Finally, belatedly, her anger had eased, and she wondered if she should have stayed with the ship. But it was too late now. She had disembarked with Tristan, and it was gone, and the fate of those on board quite out of her hands, although not, she felt all too sure, out of the hands of her royal suitor. It was treason, she thought dully. He has every right to string every last one of them from the yardarm. But she still hoped that he might not do it. However misguided, however unsought, they'd been seeking her safety... Would that wring any mercy from the wronged monarch's pitiless heart?

Tristan trudged beside her, just as subdued. It had taken a certain amount of eloquence from Captain Shakespeare to persuade him to leave, once events had been explained to him. Yvaine kept mentioning Victoria, on and off, trying to cheer him up, but it didn't seem to be working. One last try, she thought, then I'm giving up.

"Victoria's going to be delighted with her star, isn't she?" Yvaine said brightly.

"Hmm?" said Tristan. "Oh, yes... delighted."

I give up, thought Yvaine, and they walked on in silence. For some time they had been hearing thunder from back the way they'd come, but it came no closer, and their occasional glances behind revealed nothing. Eventually the storm died away.

Why am i slogging along this freezing road anyway? wondered Yvaine. But where else could she be? Aboard a most likely doomed sky-vessel? In a silken carriage on the way to Mount Huon? Alas, not unless her heart cooperated. She turned her mind to this all important matter. I think i _do_ love him, she thought, perplexed, as she remembered her terror and anger at seeing his life threatened by the well-meaning treason of the pirates. But my heart is still my own. I can't love him quite _enough_... not utterly _completely_. Why _not_?

She sighed then, heavily and miserably, for it was all too obvious. Trust. She loved him, but she did not trust him. Could not trust him. How could she _possibly_? He might, for all the love she genuinely believed he felt for her, nonetheless be capable of killing her. So how could she possibly trust him? But if she could not give him her heart without trusting him and thus loving him completely... she was doomed.

Irrationally, though, when a dark shape swooped overhead and alighted on the road before them, her heart rose rather than sank.

"Oh, not him _again_," grumbled Tristan, and then the King of Stormhold stood before them. Free of gore, Yvaine was relieved to see, although there were plenty of other ways to dispose of traitors.

"Yvaine," he said politely, "may i speak with you?"

She nodded, and took his arm, and they walked on a little way, leaving Tristan standing sulkily beside a small bush.

Eventually they stopped and looked at one another, and noting her blue cheeks, he shrugged off his greatcoat and wrapped it about her.

"Captain Shakespeare and his men?" she could not help inquiring, when this welcome weight of black wool hung about her. "They were trying to protect me," she added meaningfully, hoping that she was not pleading the case too late.

His lip twisted disdainfully.

"Aye," he agreed, "so they were. They may or may not consider their fate worse than death, but they are not dead, if that is what you are asking. The Caspardine is by now far over the over side of the wall. Stormhold will never allow it to return."

Yvaine blinked.

"Because of their treason?" she asked. She was gaining an understanding of the strong connection between the land and its power and the king. He nodded. She thought about this for a moment. "Captain Shakespeare always wanted to see England," she remarked at last.

"So i recalled," said the king rather nastily. "Though I'm not entirely sure how long that vessel will stay in the air over there anyway, so they may receive their full comeuppance after all." This possibility appeared to give him some satisfaction, and she wondered how much his feelings for her had stayed his hand. "If i ever set eyes on any of them again..." he said, very softly, his eyes cold and deadly, and his fingers caressing the hilt of his dagger lovingly.

Yvaine shivered. He really is a killer, she thought, but i always knew that. Why do i love him at all?

"About us..." said the king quietly. She looked up at him again. Was he out of patience? "How do things... progress?" he inquired awkwardly, drawing her forward into his arms.

She moistened her lips nervously, longing to feel his upon them. But she was growing weary with all the uncertainty and she did not want to lie to him.

"I love you," she said simply, "but i cannot trust you, and therefore i cannot... love you quite... enough. That is where things are and..." she hesitated, then added with painful, and dangerous, honesty, "I can't really see that that is likely to change in the near future."

Now he will cut my heart out, she thought sadly, and it will be done with. But perhaps he might kiss me first... i begin to feel i could die for one kiss...

He stared down at her unhappily.

"You place me in an awkward situation," he whispered, his face pale.

"I must think about this," he concluded after a moment. He bent forward swiftly, as though he could not help himself, his lips brushed the top of her head, then the raven stood on the road before her.

"Oh, is your back alright?" she exclaimed. The raven inclined its head in a brief, affirmative response, and took flight in a dark flash of wings. She watched him go, until the small black speck had disappeared from view. I think i know his decision, she thought bleakly. Then she reflected, i really don't trust him, do i? I don't give him the benefit of the doubt at all... But he spared the Captain and his men, she reminded herself. Except... she happened to be fairly sure that the king would consider being exiled over the wall as a fate worse than death. How much mercy, then, had his decision really involved? True mercy, or cunning scheme to take true vengeance in a way bloodless enough to please Yvaine? She wasn't sure.

I think, she thought sadly, that the next time i see him, he will kill me. She ought to feel more upset. What had he said? That she ought to be glad that she would be the means of such a benefit to someone she liked. Sun and moon, she thought, i really do love him, for i am not sure i am not beginning to tend towards that opinion. That consolation, at least.

But what other comfort did she have left to cling to?

_**Part 10**_

Septimus perched high in a mighty oak tree, his thoughts most closely resembling a particularly tormented maelstrom.

'What do i do? What do i do? What do i do?' That was the question that resonated unceasingly over all the rest. He absentmindedly gulped down a nearby beetle and tried to think calmly and rationally.

As he feared, she could not love him enough, without trusting him, and of course, she couldn't possibly trust him. He could hardly fault her there. _He_ did not think that he could love a star stupid enough to trust him. But if she could not give him her heart freely, there was only one option left to him... other than to let eternal life escape him, which was surely unthinkable folly that would torment him his entire life... But she does _love_ me, he thought, in anguished indecision. Therefore we must be so close. Yes, said a colder part of him, but without trust she cannot give you her heart, however long you wait. You must take it by force. It is the only way.

But if i take it by force, he thought, then i slay her, the woman i love... i will surely regret that for the rest of my days, which, with the prize that is her heart, will be very, very many... Is that really winning? Eternal life; eternal regret? Is there now no way for me to win? Spare her, and regret her heart all my life, slay her, and regret it forever? Neither way leads to happiness.

If she could only trust me, he thought, writhing in frustration. So close, so close. He loved her. She loved him. He trusted her. She did not trust him. Fair enough. Was there any way he could make her trust him? When you do not trust _yourself_ with her? the cold part mocked him. He grit his teeth, the gears of his mind turning into more cunning channels. I am my father's son, he thought, but i am not my father. Cunning. I can be even more cunning than him, if i must. She only has to trust me long enough to give me her heart. Once it is mine, it matters not if she finds it was a trick, for she will still trust me_ then_. She will no longer have reason not to. But, protested a small part of him, the woman you love, isn't there something about not deceiving the woman you love? It is better to cut out her heart, then? he shot back sardonically. How to make her trust him?

His hopeful thoughts stalled. That was not an easy thing to achieve. Put a knife in her hands, guide it to his bare throat, tell her she could be free of him forever if she so chose? He cawed at himself derisively, causing several pigeons to start from the tree in fright. There was certainly no risk in that, for she loved him true and was no killer, it was safe as houses and she was too intelligent not to know that he knew it... that was not the way. Give her a means, then, a means for her to get away from him? Not exactly easy. No fast horse could outdistance his wings, no corner of Faerie was far enough that he could not come after her, the way through the wall was bared to her by the ridiculous physics of the human world. Besides, he thought, a means to escape me, if a true one, is, after all, a means to escape me... What if prudence and not unnatural suspicion – she did know him, after all - should reign over love, and she should take that means and use it? If it was a sufficiently genuine means that it could win her trust, it could also snatch her from him...

A foolish tree rat peeped out at him from a knoll. In a few seconds the creature was pinned under his fierce talons, and his beak stabbed down hungrily, pieces disappearing rapidly down his throat. He felt a little less hungry when he'd finished, but no more decided. But it had given his troubled thoughts a breather, and he was able to set out his options wore clearly before his mind's eye.

He could kill her, that way lay eternal regret.

He could let her live, perhaps even marry her, that way lay both life long regret and worse, life long temptation. There could surely not be much worse damnation than to feel old age begin to creep upon one, and then, to slay the wife one had sworn to love and protect, the mother of one's children, one's queen of thirty or more years... He shook it from his head. That vision appalled even him. No, not that way. If he let her live he would banish her from Stormhold, to the farthest corner of Faerie, seek not to know wither she went, seek never to think of her again... and still there would be the regret, and the temptation.

Or he could... not deceive her, really, for to work, it could not be deception. He could take a gamble. A terrible gamble. He could offer her a means of escape and hope that it tipped things in his favour. That it gave her trust. Gave him her heart. But in doing so, risk losing her entirely. A chilling possibility. But possibly better than the two other options.

So, he thought, if i am to choose between her death and her heart, or her life and not her heart, it is possible i would not choose in her favour. But if i am to choose between her life _and_ her heart, or the two worse things... Perhaps i do not love her enough to let her go entirely, he thought, but i love her enough to take this gamble. If it works, i have everything. If it fails... i will have nothing, not even the ability to destroy myself through my greed...

So, said the mocking part of him, you've made your noble decision. And how might you carry out this plan, with no means to make her trust you?

He cursed harshly in his unmelodious voice.

How indeed?

Yvaine had gone with Tristan to the wall. They'd spent two day's walking along that freezing road to get there, after all, and she was curious to at least peep through the gap to the other world. And, let's face it, she had nothing better to do. Tristan had promised that as soon as he secured his true love's hand with his rocky gift, he would return long enough to see her safe in some place or other. He had sounded as vague about the whole matter as Yvaine felt. If she had feared that his task of squiring her around Stormhold would be a long one, she might have refused his aid, but she knew she needed an escort only until the king's next visit, and then all would be settled, one way or another. She was quite sure the king could incapacitate Tristan without slaying him, as a last favour to her, if nothing else. And when it came down to it, she would rather that her heart was not wasted, as it would be if she were slain by some clueless brigand, nor that it should go to other than the king, if go it must.

She played peek-a-boo through the gap with the old human guard for a while. He seemed a shy and harmless old dear, for all Septimus's suspicion of humankind. His ears, far more rounded than Tristan's, fascinated her, though the fact that he ducked back behind the wall whenever he caught her peeping made it rather hard to get a good look at them. Eventually, he stopped daring to peek at all, so she sat down in the grass at the foot of the wall to wait.

Her thoughts dwelt sadly and rather adoringly on the king's gracefully pointed ears, before moving in more tragic directions. She hoped he would not be long in coming. Ridiculous, but she missed him. He'd been gone two days already. And she saw no point in drawing the whole business out. He would decide, and that was it. There was nothing she could do about it.

Her head jerked up as she saw a small black form gliding between the trees, and she got to her feet to meet him. He held something clutched in his talons, but she did not have time to see what it was before he stood before her a man.

"Yvaine," he greeted her, his face pale and his eyes flushed with something that looked like triumph and nerves combined.

"Septimus," she responded, with loving wariness.

He took hold of her, drew her to him. She did not fight.

"Yvaine," he said, rather gently, and she steeled herself for some apology before the fact, or in this case, act. "I have something for you," he told her, and he pressed something into her hands.

She looked down at it. It was long, and black, and waxy... She gasped and raised it closer to her eyes, to make sure... a Babylon candle. Without a shadow of doubt, a Babylon candle. And tied tightly around it with thin thread, strong enough to hold, but weak enough for a woman to break... matches. Three, for good measure. Another gasp escaped her, and she raised her face slowly to look at him. He stood there, face inches from hers, still pale and visibly agitated.

"I want you to stay with me," he said awkwardly. "But you can go, i give you the means to leave me. But i hope you will stay." He swallowed and said almost under his breath, eyes on the ground, or rather her hands, and the matches, "Stars, this love thing cuts both ways, doesn't it?" His hands took her shoulders, then, pulling her closer still, and he looked her right in the face,

"Stay," he said, or rather implored, "stay, my love, stay with me..."

Yvaine turned her face to meet his and the candle slipped forgotten from her fingers as their lips met. The first kiss was gentle, verging on tentative, exploratory, questing... but oh, the satisfaction of lips touching lips at long last. It was long, and above all tender and Yvaine all but sank against him, so overwhelming was it, breast to chest. And at some point, when they finally drew apart a few inches to look into one another's eyes, Yvaine realised that she had lost something, and gained something in its place.

"My heart!" she whispered to him in utter joy and relief, "it is yours now."

Septimus's lips parted in delight, and the most all-consuming relief she had ever seen.

"Mine," he whispered at last, his voice shaking, gathering her possessively close, "you are mine?"

"Yours," affirmed Yvaine gladly, "all yours."

He kissed her again, deeply, fiercely, devouringly, and she answered him, matching him caress for caress, one hand wrapped around his back, clutching the leather of his coat, the other wound into his hair. He bore her back until they met the nearby wall, and to that he pressed her, and she braced herself satisfyingly against it to be still closer to him. His arms had slid under the heavy black greatcoat and the attention he gave her neck caused the too-big garment to slip irritatingly down her arms, but she could not release him for even so long as to shrug it off...

This joyful union of hearts and lips came to a rude end when there was a nasty _clonk_ and Septimus staggered away from her. He raised a hand to his head and drew it away, stained with red. His eyes slitted with rage and fixed on Tristan, guard's staff in hand, whose cry of, 'Get away from her' had gone pretty much unheard and certainly unheeded.

"You little..." hissed the king, and stepping away from Yvaine, he unsheathed his sword with clear intent. Tristan took one look at this wickedly long, curved blade, and hastily cast aside the staff, drawing his own shorter sword in turn. They advanced towards one another, angry grace and clumsy courage respectively. Yvaine, judging that Tristan would probably die in the very first exchange of blows, interposed herself in between them.

"Stop it, you two!" she cried, then wheeling on Tristan, "What the _hell_ do you think you are doing?" she demanded furiously. "You can't just go around hitting people over the head with a stick!"

Tristan looked taken aback and rather aggrieved,

"But he was hurting you!" he replied vehemently.

"Hurting me?" said Yvaine in astonishment, "However did you get _that_ idea?"

"Well," said Tristan rather delicately, with a flick of his hand at Yvaine's disheveled state. She recalled then that Tristan had been a much primed by the captain's little story as the crew, if more belatedly. "And," Tristan persevered with more confidence, "you were _moaning_."

Septimus made a choked sound and swung round abruptly, putting his back to the lad. His shoulders shook violently, and after turning to regard him with initial concern, Yvaine understood and covered a smile. He was laughing! The king was laughing! Tristan's well-meaning naivety, combined, perhaps, with Septimus's essentially pretty radiant good mood, had been too much even for his black temper.

"Tristan," she said, "his majesty was kissing me, nothing more." Nothing more did not really cover that experience, she thought, but decided not to go into that much detail to Tristan.

Tristan was frowning in stubborn skepticism.

"I've kissed girls," he declared, as though this was a profound achievement of some note, "and i certainly never made one _moan_."

_Septimus _moaned then, a strangled gasping moan, and clutched his ribs rather desperately for a moment or two, before finally straightening to say dryly,

"I _really_ don' t think that's something you should boast about, Tristan."

Yvaine gulped down some near hysterical laughter herself. Dearie me! And she'd thought the captain was going to explain a few things.

"Tristan," she said, when she trusted herself to speak again. "I propose a few basic guidelines to help you distinguish between a women being offered welcome attentions and a woman being offered unwelcome ones. You might, perhaps, try observing her hands. If they are beating frantically against the man in question, or if she appears to be trying to sink her nails into his flesh, then you may justly surmise that the attentions are unwelcome. If, however, her hands are lying upon, or clutching, or stroking, her admirer's clothing or hair, then you must conclude that the attentions are welcome. Does that help?"

Tristan looked uncertain, and seemed to be matching this list with his recollection of what he had just interrupted.

"Then," he said at last in a small voice, "he was kissing you, and..."

"I was kissing him," said Yvaine. "And your interruption was extremely ungentlemanly. And really quite vicious," she added more fiercely, and hastened to the side of the still-laughing monarch.

"Come," she said, "put that cleaver away and let me see your head."

"Cleaver!" grumbled Septimus, "you call my noble blade a cleaver!" but he sheathed it, and at her urgings, obligingly dropped to one knee to allow her easy access to the back of his head. Yvaine parted the sticky hair and examined the cut as closely as she could.

"It's really not very large," she said, "but it's bleeding an awful lot."

"It's a scalp wound," replied Septimus, wholly unconcerned, "it will. Let it be, it will clot soon enough. Now," he said more purposefully, capturing her hand, "whilst I'm down here, may i assume that our previous brief exchange means that you will do me the great honour of consenting to become my wife?"

Yvaine blushed, smiled and nodded with sudden shyness, then knelt in front of him to bring their faces onto a level. He eyed his mostly bare fingers in sudden disfavour, and apparently unwilling not to place some visible sign on her own hand, he drew off his great signet ring, shrunk the band a little with a quick brush of magic, and set it securely on her ring finger.

"You must forgive me," he told her, "if i take it back at some time in the future, but i promise when i do i shall replace it with a wedding ring."

"And in the mean time," Yvaine responded, "i shall grow some new muscles in this finger of mine!" She flexed her finger testingly, it was indeed a heavy ring.

Septimus responded to this good-humoured jest by kissing her again, and he kissed her until she lay in the green grass under him and Tristan's mouth was wide enough to catch flies. However, at a point well short of his lady's dishonour, the king reluctantly yielded possession of her lips, and rising, drew her to her feet as well. Yvaine busied herself straightening her crumpled dress, the better not to meet Tristan's astounded gaze.

"Tristan," said the king rather loftily, "I shall go to the town and fetch horses for Yvaine and myself. I should not be gone more than a couple of hours. Be so good as to remain with Yvaine just a little longer, whilst i am gone."

Tristan blinked for a moment, but gallantry overcame whatever else he felt, and he agreed readily enough. The king, pausing only to kiss Yvaine goodbye, which constituted quite a long pause, took wing and was gone.

"So," said Yvaine, in an attempt at a casual tone, after the silence had drawn on for some minutes, "How did it go with Victoria?"

"Oh... ah... very well," said Tristan distractedly, still casting looks at a certain patch of flattened grass.

"She was pleased?" prompted Yvaine, genuinely interested in the young man's happiness.

"Oh, yes," said Tristan, his tone warming. "Actually," he went on, sounding pleased as punch, "she was barely interested in the star when it came to it. She was so happy to see me safe and sound."

And far more dashing than when first we met, thought Yvaine wryly, but held her tongue. She would not pour cold water on his happiness. If he was even half as happy just then as she, then he was blessed.

"And, uh..." Tristan ventured hesitantly, "you're... really going to marry him, then? The king?"

Yvaine nodded, sure she must be glowing and trying to restrain herself. If she was still in contact with Tristan after they were both happily wed, then perhaps it might be time for the truth, but until then, he was so honest that she would not jeapardise his marriage plans.

"You'll be the queen," said Tristan, sounding rather awed.

Yvaine considered this fact. It was neither here nor there in the balance of her love for Septimus, and it was no surprise, since she had known of his kingship all along.

"Yes," she said, "i suppose i will."

Then she glanced down the road as she heard the thud of hoof beats and the jingle of harness. Surely not Septimus already, that was impossible... the creak of wheels rendered this possibility still more unlikely, and making up her mind to hide, she darted for the woodland.

There was the wall, thought Septimus, and glancing at the sun, noted with satisfaction that he had made good time. He had acquired a fine but even-tempered grey mare for his beloved, and, since he was not much inclined to ride on her shoulder in feathery state, a fine black stallion for himself. It was good to be astride a horse again, he had been flying so much since he took up his quest, and even more so since control of the curse had passed into his own hands. His happy thoughts jerked to a very abrupt halt as his eyes fell upon the form that lay spread-eagled beside the gap in the wall. Tristan. He spurred his horse forward, looking about him, but Yvaine was nowhere in sight...

He saw carriage tracks but with a certain application of common sense to his heart, he swung down from his mount to check on the boy, who if alive, could surely give him much-needed information on Yvaine's whereabouts. A cursory examination revealed no more than a slightly cut and bruised head; too worried to be amused at the cosmic justice of this fact, Septimus took the canteen from his saddle and emptied a good measure of water over the boy's face, following it up with a couple of hefty slaps. The boy moaned and began to come around. Septimus was at the safe distance dictated by long experience when Tristan abruptly rolled over and vomited, and he gave the boy time for only one moan before moving in to grip his shoulders and shake him.

"Where's Yvaine?" he snarled.

Tristan groaned. Septimus shook harder.

"Where's Yvaine?" he hissed.

"I..." Tristan gasped, "The witch... I'm sorry..." Septimus greeted this effort at information-giving by desisting in his shaking, and free from this torment, the young man began to recover somewhat more quickly and soon sat up of his own accord.

"The witch," he said more coherently. "She came in a carriage, the one we escaped before, the witch, that is... Yvaine ran for the woods, but i thought we should hide in England, and i grabbed her..."

Tristan suddenly found himself flat on his back, the king's hand gripping him savagely by the throat.

"What did you _do_?" cried the king, his eyes darting fearfully towards the gap in the wall. His grip on Tristan relaxed just slightly when his experienced eyes fell upon nothing that looked remotely like a meteorite.

"Nothing!" gasped Tristan, clearly shocked by the king's terrified fury, "that is," he ducked his head slightly in shame, "she fought me, and would not come. She said she would die if she crossed the wall... i still don't really understand, but," he glanced at the king's arm holding him, "i suppose it must be true. And by the time she convinced me to let her go," he mumbled, "it was too late. The witch was here. She picked up the candle, then looked at Yvaine. I told her she could not have Yvaine but," shame-faced, he bowed his head still more, till his chin pretty-much touched Septimus's hand, "i went flying through the air," he touched his head gingerly, "i suppose i hit the wall... i don't remember." He looked around rather reluctantly, as though fearing what he might see. "She took Yvaine, didn't she?" he said in a very small voice.

"She did," snapped Septimus, releasing Tristan and jerking to his feet. He flung the two sets of reins down beside the young man. "Follow on with the horses as son as you can," he ordered curtly. "And bring your nerve," he shot over his shoulder, as he turned away. Then he was the raven, and he sped off, following the carriage tracks and the map in his own mind.

Tristan sat there for a moment trying not to cry in shock and shame and pain and fear. He had never been so ashamed in his whole life. He'd let Yvaine be taken, and she could be dead, and now he had to follow on, he knew that he was going to do it, even without the king's order. He was going to go to a witch's lair to try and rescue her and he and Septimus would probably both be killed. In his memory, his last confrontation with the witch had become a little distorted. In his need to think well of himself in the face of the dashing young king of Stormhold, he had thought much of his cleverness and courageousness, and forgotten the terror of the moment and the sheer blind luck that had saved him, that he had a piece of Babylon candle in his pocket and had had the wit to remember and use it. He touched his head again and stared at the crimson that stained it. For almost the first time in his short life he felt the chill touch of his own mortality. That witch really may kill me, he thought numbly. There was more chance of success, surely, if he got there in time to lend Septimus his aid, but a new voice of rather fearful prudence in his mind whispered that perhaps it would be better if he got there afterwards, if Septimus had already killed the witch. Except, alone, who was to say that the king could? Then Tristan would have to face her all by himself, surely certain death. Swallowing, the young man summoned true courage for the first time, got unsteadily to his feet, dragged himself up onto the grey mare, tied the stallion to his saddle bow, and urged his mount to a gallop, which made him feel fairly sure that his head was going to fall off before he got anywhere near the witch, but he did not slacken his pace.

Yvaine lay trembling on the stone slab, beset by terribly contrary hopes and fears. She hoped Septimus would come for her. She feared he would come for her. She hoped he would save her. She feared he would be killed. She didn't know what she wanted. Don't come, she thought. Don't die, she thought. Come, but don't die... No, he mustn't come... But he would come, she knew, and whether she was dead or alive by then he would surely attack the witch. So surely better that he came sooner, while she still lived, while there was still a chance...

She seemed to be out of time. The witch had finished sharpening her glass dagger and stepped towards her. The other two witches were down the hall, reading the innards of an unfortunate wolf.

"I should proceed, i assume?" said Lamia, caressing the glass blade. Yvaine shrunk away from her. Two soft thuds were the only response from down the hall. Yvaine followed the witch's eyes in that direction. Two lifeless forms lay near the auguration table. Lamia's eyes narrowed in shock. Yvaine thought she heard just the faintest whisper of wings, but dared not scan the air of the hall too attentively.

Lamia held her dagger in a wary guard position, looking about her. Nothing moved, to Yvaine's relief. Septimus was too clever to attempt a frontal assault on her.

But after a few moments of dead silence, the witch gave a scornful twist of her lips and stepped back to the side of the stone slab. She raised the dagger high, but her eyes flicked attentively... Septimus was too clever to attempt a frontal assault upon the witch, _unless_ he felt he had no other choice, thought Yvaine, sick with terror. And the witch probably wasn't even shamming, she would probably the complete the action if he did not show himself.

She heard wings,

"No, Septimus!" she screamed, but he came anyway, like an arrow. The witch made a violent gesture, and the raven's fragile form was caught on an invisible wave and sent hurtling across the hall, smashing into the wall with an impact that drew a choked cry from Yvaine's lips. The bird fell to the floor, a limp bundle of feathers. Yvaine twisted, trying to see better, sobs of fear forcing their way from her throat.

"Septimus!" she cried desperately, "Septimus?"

After a moment, though, it was not a broken bundle of feathers that lay there, but a man, who moved slightly. His right arm and leg lay at a terrible angle, though; it was that side which had struck the wall. Yvaine drew breath slightly more easily, though, to see that he still lived. The witch had turned her attention back to Yvaine, but Yvaine still watched the injured man. Slowly, agonisingly, he twisted onto his left side, and pushing with his good leg, and dragging himself along on his good elbow, he began to inch along the hall towards her. For a moment she was almost choked with love for him. What did he possibly imagine he could do, in his condition? But still he came. She hoped the witch might not notice his futile efforts, but she was disappointed. Lamia smiled cruelly and waved her hand. The king was swept up into the air by something invisible. His good hand clutched frantically at the thing that seemed to be holding him there; an invisible noose around his neck. His good leg jerked helplessly. He could not breath, his face darkened as he suffocated.

Yvaine twisted frantically, struggling desperately against her bonds.

"Stop, stop," she sobbed, "please, stop it! He can't hurt you!" The witch ignored her, and a glimmer of rationality came to her terrified mind.

"Stop it," said Yvaine, "if you kill him, my heart will never glow again. But if you let him live, it will glow whilst you cut it out, as brightly as you could possibly wish."

Lamia looked at her then, and she knew that she had got her attention. The witch flung out a hand and the king flew into it, a bird again. The witch could control his curse, thought Yvaine, in sudden puzzlement. But all such consideration flew from her mind as she saw how the witch held him. Body in one hand, head in the other, as one would hold the chicken one meant to eat for supper.

"I'll glow for you," Yvaine whispered frantically, "i promise, i'll shine for you, just let him live... Let me... say goodbye," she said imploringly, another ray of light suddenly darting into her mind.

The witch hesitated, and her muscles tensed so that for a moment Yvaine was sure that she was going to wring Septimus's neck, just to spite her. But then she flung the king down beside Yvaine and he was a man again. Yvaine twisted, trying to see him. Bone protruded from flesh and his clothes were soaked in blood. He was terribly injured. She swallowed and put it from her mind. Survive first, worry about his injuries later.

"Kiss me, Septimus," she whispered.

He peered at her, eyes pain-dulled and distracted, narrowed in a futile attempt at concentration.

"Yvaine," he breathed, "I'm... I'm trying to..."

She let out her breath in loving admiration. And a tinge of frustration. Here he was, gravely injured, helpless, and still he was trying to see some way to victory. Only, she had a plan, and she needed him to cooperate.

"Septimus," she said, her tone like iron, "_kiss_ me."

He glanced at her in bleary surprise. A look of resignation passed through his eyes, as though to say, if i can't win, at least i'll die kissing the woman i love... He rolled over, his face whitening with the effort, and he pressed his lips to hers. She could not hold him, he could not hold her, for his good arm was under him, but it did not matter. They expressed themselves through lips alone and it was enough. It was more than enough.

I'll shine for you, thought Yvaine savagely, as she kissed her true love. And she did.

When it was over, all was certainly over for the witch. Nothing but a few flakes of ash survived, floating in the draft. Yvaine lay back with a sigh and smiled at Septimus. His head had sunk onto her shoulder, but he mustered a smile in return. Now... time to worry about his wounds. As soon as she got free from this cursed slab... Septimus did not look well enough to oblige. Perhaps i can get hold of one of his daggers myself, she thought, turning her head to eye them, and twisting a hand experimentally against the straps...

"Die, foul witch!" came a rather hysterical shriek, and Tristan came hurtling into the hall, sword held aloft. Thank the sun and moon Septimus had more tactical sense than _that_, though Yvaine, with weary, but not wholly unaffectionate exasperation.

"Tristan," she called, "it's over, the witches are dead. But if you would be so kind as to free me..."

Tristan stopped, blinking and breathing rather hard, then he hastened up to the dais, and unfastened the straps, staring at Septimus's bloody condition. Freed, Yvaine rolled the king over onto his back as gently as she could, and looked him over. Mess didn't quite cover it.

Tristan eyed him as well. If ever i want to free her from his dishonourable intentions, a little voice whispered in his mind, i will never have an opportunity like this. Appalled at himself, he shook the thought away. That was a suggestion worthy of a... a prince of Stormhold! he thought, for Captain Shakespeare had taught him quite a bit about the royal family.

"Septimus," Yvaine was saying gently, "we must get you to a physician at once, but we'll have to splint this if we're to move you. I think i could manage a bird's wing and leg more easily than a man's, and... well, you'll be easier to carry, you know."

Septimus looked up at her, his face a ghastly white, and ominously clammy as well. A trickle of blood escaped his pallid lips, and she feared for his internal condition. So did he, as it happened, but he did not wish to alarm her. He nodded agreement to her plan, but gave her a significant look. Interpreting this correctly, she bent to give him a gentle kiss, after which he obligingly adopted his feathery form.

Tristan assisted Yvaine with the splinting with great diligence, still aghast at that little thought/temptation that had slid through his mind upon seeing the king so helpless. Speed was clearly of the essence, and they managed it quite quickly. Then Yvaine lifted the raven carefully in her arms, mercifully he had passed out early on in the splinting process, but now he stirred again. She propped his small beady-eyed head on her breast as the most comfortable pillow, and he gave so ironic a caw that he did not need to speak. 'The first time i get to put my head on _this_,' he said, 'and I'm in no condition to appreciate it as i should.' She just smiled and kissed his beak by way of consolation.

Halfway down the hall, the raven raised its head and looked about it, clearly perplexed. There was a small silver cage on the mantelpiece, a small blue bird inside. Septimus saw it and cawed, urgent and insistent. Yviane looked at the small blue bird in sudden surmise.

"Tristan," she said, "would you be so good as to bring that birdcage along?"

Startled, Tristan obeyed, muttering to the little bird that they certainly weren't going to leave her to starve, poor little thing...

They got on horseback, and Yvaine buttoned the king up securely in the greatcoat she still wore, and Tristan tied the cage to his saddle, and crouching over their horses' withers with varying expertise, they rode like the wind...

_**Epilogue**_

As soon as the king was well enough, he touched the power of Stormhold to the ring the little bird wore around one leg, and a princess stood before him. She tore the ring from her finger and threw it across the room. Her delight at being reunited with her brother was clearly unfeigned, though it was only once Tristan had departed and was back in Wall that she made a few little revelations about her life for the past decade or so, one of which involved Tristan rather closely. The king, needless to say, was _not amused_.

By the time he was well enough recovered to start planning the royal wedding, however, the joint efforts of Una and Yvaine had softened him, with the result that Tristan re-entered Stormhold and was born to Mount Huon in a silken carriage, Victoria Thorne, as she now was, at his side, proud, and dazed, and delighted beyond her wildest dreams. He brought a card of congratulations from Captain Shakespeare, who had managed to crash land in a river, and having rowed his vessel to the sea and erected a makeshift mast, was sailing to London. He had also talked with enthusiasm of a pilgrimage to Stratford-upon-Avon, but Tristan hadn't been too sure where that was.

Victoria was in the seventh heaven, seated in the temple to watch the king place a ring on his love's hand; Septimus exchanged his signet ring for a certain ring that he had picked up from the floor, and which he now, after careful testing, judged safe to place on his true love's hand, that she might join him in the skies of Stormhold.

Victoria then found herself seated on the high table at the wedding feast, next to her husband's mother, who was a _princess_! The new queen of Stormhold even took her aside for a few words, apparently genuinely interested in Tristan's bride. Victoria had never had a day like it in her entire life.

"Victoria and i," Tristan was saying to Septimus, nominally making polite conversation, but clearly delighted to have beaten the king to _something_, "have..." his knowledge of how to phrase such things in polite society plainly failing him, he said, with a significant look, "a bun in the oven."

Septimus eyed him uncomprehendingly.

"You have bought a bakery?" he inquired lazily, sardonically, and quite frankly, without a great deal of interest.

Tristan flushed.

"No, no," he said. "I mean, Victoria is _expecting_..."

This term the king recognised, he gave a slight bow and offered his congratulations, and with this Tristan was forced to be content.

"I suppose you had to hold the wedding until you were well enough for the ceremony?" Tristan said at last in a conciliatory tone.

Septimus eyed him again.

"Aside from the need my sister assured me of to allow the ladies of the realm to dress suitably," he said dryly, "it was hardly the ceremony. They could have propped me up for that somehow, I'm sure. Say rather, the wedding _night_." His wickedly significant look was so much more eloquent than Tristan's that the young man coloured to the tip of his forehead, as though he had not been a married man for some months himself.

"Of course, of course," he mumbled hastily.

Yvaine returned with Victoria just then, which distracted the king rather effectively.

"I do believe," he purred in the queen's ear, "that it is our wedding day and i have not kissed you for over fifteen minutes."

"I kissed you ten minutes ago," pointed out Yvaine.

"Ah yes," said the king, "very thoroughly, i recall. Still; my turn," and he proceeded to make up for his omission most thoroughly.

Septimus's nieces, standing nearby, cooed and aahed at this. Yvaine was not in fact the only person in Stormhold to be glad that Septimus specifically was king. His three nieces were very pleased as well. It perhaps seems strange that they should favour the defenestrator of their father over their father himself, but it was so. Septimus had always acknowledged that they existed, always nodded to them in the corridors, however curtly, occasionally taught them neat tricks with a dagger, and even off-handedly gifted them with his old pony, which he had long outgrown. Their father, on the other hand, had distinguished himself chiefly by remarks such as the following, made in their presence, no less: "Really, Septimus, bastards are the unavoidable result of a man's pleasure, one must feed them and clothe them and wed them off if one has the means, and either way, they are worthy of no attention."

Suffice it to say, their father's defenestration had been no tragedy for his three offspring. Primus had favoured the eradication of their bastard origins by making them all virgin priestesses; one of the brood did feel a certain call to this profession, but since the other two did not, it had been concluded, that for the sake of the majority, Primus was not the preferred heir. Tertius and dark corners, they had very early learned to avoid, especially if he were drunk; he was even less favoured than Primus. By default, once all their softer brothers were dead, they had settled on Septimus, and feeling confident enough of his success, these little daughters of Stormhold had not judged it necessary to involve themselves directly in the succession. Their confidence had not been misplaced, and now they took every opportunity to remind their uncle of their preferences with regard to type of husband, or no husband, as the case might be. Septimus listened, and smiled, and promised nothing.

Tristan went home with his wife after the wedding, and only occasionally visited, and still more occasionally took Victoria with him. If he occasionally felt a stab of melancholy, he had only to count his blessing, and he felt better. His blessings were certainly many indeed. He had a beautiful wife, many fine children, the whole village admired him, and he had a mother who was a princess whom he occasionally went to see in a magical land, and with whom his father had gone to live, leaving him a prosperous business. And if, once or twice, he reflected that his uncle was a king, and that had the witch chosen just a little differently, he might have been a king himself, it is to his credit that after toying with this attractive idea for a while, he always concluded in favour of his own, quiet existence. He would never have the passion for ruling that his uncle did, or that Yvaine quickly acquired. On his last visit she had gone on for nearly half an hour, before noting his obvious boredom, laughing, and changing the subject. No, Tristan had a comfortable life that suited him very well.

Septimus and Yvaine ruled, and rode, and flew together, and were probably happier then any two people have any right to be. "There are things that would eat you in one gulp," the king had told her, before taking her for her first flight, "so stay close to me."

And she always did.


End file.
